TB^Xi 

1 


NS&-T  .->•; 

HI 


THE  L1BKAK* 
UNIVERSITY  OF 

THE    BMT51NISTER 


A  SOCIAL  STUDY 


"If  that  the  heavens  do  not  their  visible  spirits 
Send  quickly  down  to  tame  these  vile  offenses, 
'T  will  come, 

Humanity  must  perforce  prey  on  itself 
Like  monsters  of  the  deep." 

—KiNG  LEAR. 


NEW  YORK : 

CASSELL  &  COMPANY,  LIMITED 

1885 


COPYRIGHT 

1885 
By  O.  M.  DUNHAM, 


A II  Rights  Reserved. 


DEDICATION. 


TO  REV.  GEORGE  ALEXANDER,   D.D. 

Whose  tender  pity  for  all  suffering  humanity  ;  whose 
fearless  courage  in  denunciation  of  wrong-doing,  and  whose 
tireless  efforts  to  uplift  the  downtrodden  must  always  keep 
him  in  lively  sympathy  with  whomsoever  would  strike  a  blow 
at  recognized  evil,  this  book,  which  claims  no  other  merit 
than  earnestness  of  purpose,  is  dedicated  in  token  of  the 
affectionate  esteem  of  the 

AUTHOR. 


2061812 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  i.    A  TENACIOUS  MAN.      .  .  .  i 

CHAPTER  n.     MOTES  AND  BEAMS.    .  .  .  .10 

CHAPTER  in.     TWO  LETTERS  OF  ONE  DATE.  .  .    24 

CHAPTER  iv.    THE  DOCTOR'S  PERPLEXITIES.  .  .     32  ' 

CHAPTER  v.     THE  DAY  OF  DEPARTURE.     .  .  .46 

CHAPTER  vi.    MR.    QUINBY     RECEIVES    VISITORS     AND 

ADVICE.          .  .  .  .  -57 

CHAPTER  vn.    DISCIPLINE  AND  DEFEAT.    .  .  .    71 

CHAPTER  vin.  AN  IMPORTATION  FROM  THE  SOUTH.  .  86 
CHAPTER  ix.  SNAP  JUDGMENT.  ....  100 
CHAPTER  x.  SHALL  AULD  ACQUAINTANCE  BE  FORGOT?  in 
CHAPTER  xi.  A  SAINTLY  SINNER.  .  .  .  129 

CHAPTER  xn.     STRICKEN  HEARTS.  .  .  .140 

CHAPTER  xui.    MR.  QUINBY'S  ATTITUDE.  .  .  153 

CHAPTER  xiv.    CLASS  NO.  i.  .  .  .  .165 

CHAPTER  xv.    THE  BLOW  DESCENDS.         .  .  .173 

CHAPTER  xvi.     COMFORT  AND  MERCY.       .  .  .  184 

CHAPTER  xvn.    THE  DEDICATION  OF  A  LIFE.      .  .  196 

CHAPTER  xvm.  TWO  CLOUDS.  ....  208 
CHAPTER  xix.  IN  DURANCE  VILE.  .  .  .  215 

CHAPTER  xx.    FACE  TO  FACE.         ....  225 


vi  CON  TENTS. 

CHAPTER  xxi.    TOTTERING  IDOLS.  .  .  .  241 

CHAPTER  xxn.     CLASS  NO.  3.  ....  253 

CHAPTER  xxm.    THE  PROBLEM  SOLVED.  .  .  263 

CHAPTER  xxiv.     AFTER  MANY  DAYS.         .  .  .  275 

CHAPTER  xxv.  STORM  TOSSED.  ....  289 
CHAPTER  xxvi.  IN  THE  TOILS.  ....  303 
CHAPTER  xxvu.  THE  END  OF  THE  STRUGGLE.  .  .  323 

CHAPTER  xxvin.    A  PARTHIAN  DART.       .  .  .  328 

CHAPTER  xxix.    A  PARTIAL  ATONEMENT.  .  .  345 


PREFACE. 


If  there  be  those  who  complain  that  the  draught 
herein  offered  is  brackish  to  the  taste,  let  them  bear  in 
mind  that  men  do  not  draw  sweet  waters  from  an 
impure  source.  The  fountain  is  brackish  and  the 
bitterness  of  Marah  is  in  its  waters ! 

If  there  be  those  who  object  that  the  shadows  are 
black  and  thick,  while  the  lights  are  pale  and  shifting, 
let  them  bear  in  mind  that  men  do  not  look  for  sun- 
shine under  the  brooding  wing  of  the  storm-cloud  ! 

If  there  be  those  who  repine  at  the  failure  of  time  to 
smooth  away  all  furrows  and  ease  every  heart-ache 
herein  chronicled,  let  them  bear  in  mind  that  men  do 
not  gather  figs  of  thistles,  or  grapes  of  thorns ! 

It  is  but  a  sheaf  of  thorns  and  thistles  bound  about 
by  a  withe  of  truth  that  is  offered. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


THE   BAR-SINISTER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A   TENACIOUS   MAN. 

ON  a  certain  afternoon  of  a  certain  day  in  a  certain 
month  of  a  year  somewhere  between  1870  and 
1 885  Mr.  John  Quinby,  the  virtual  head  of  the  office  in  a 
certain  building  in  New  York  City,  somewhere  between 
Central  Park  and  the  Battery,  turned  the  handle  of  the 
big  office  safe  to  throw  the  lock  off  the  combination 
with  an  air  of  hurried  briskness  not  often  observable 
in  his  movements,  for  Mr.  Quinby  had  reached  that 
altitude  of  worldly  success  which  entitles  a  man  to  a 
certain  amount  of  latitude  in  the  way  of  leisurely  de- 
liberation. As  a  rule,  Mr.  Quinby  generally  loitered 
about  his  snug  office  after  business  hours  with  the  air 
of  one  whose  heart  was  where  his  treasure  was,  and 
whose  body  was  quite  content  to  linger  there  also.  But 
on  the  afternoon  in  question  he  got  into  his  light  fall 
topcoat  with  a  decided  jerk  ;  crowned  his  abundance 


*  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

of  short-cropped  hair  with  his  tall  silk  hat  with  an  un- 
usual disregard  for  its  nice  adjustment,  and  drew  his 
gloves  on  as  he  walked  toward  the  elevator,  projecting 
an  imperative  "  down  !  "  ahead  of  him  to  arrest  the  ma- 
chine that  threatened  to  descend  without  him.  All 
his  actions  on  this  exceptional  afternoon  indicated  an 
undercurrent  of  impatience  that  yet  seemed  entirely 
devoid  of  any  disagreeable  element,  unless,  indeed, 
unrest  is  a  disagreeable  element,  which  perhaps  it 
is,  but  is  certainly  not  so  recognized  by  men  who  have 
placed  before  them  a  standard  of  worldly  success  that 
they  determine  to  live  up  to,  or  a  goal  they  propose 
to  reach,  counting  all  effort,  all  sacrifice,  all  privation 
as  nothing  weighed  in  the  balances  against  achieve- 
ment, or,  at  best,  as  so  many  necessary  rounds  on  the 
ladder  which  must  be  toilsomely  climbed  to  the  end. 

Mr.  Quinby  had  that  day  not  exactly  reached  a  goal, 
but  he  had  gotten  to  a  point  in  that  long  lane  (whose 
possession  of  a  "  turning  "  he  had  often  doubted)  from 
which  he  had  caught  the  first  glimpse  of  the  goal  he 
had  been  laboring  toward,  and  the  dazzling  sight 
loomed  in  the  near  perspective. 

No  wonder  then  that  Mr.  Quinby's  usually  well- 
regulated  pulse  was  slightly  a-flutter,  and  no  wonder 
he  was  impatient  to  make  Mrs.  John  Quinby  a  par- 
taker of  his  pleasurable  excitement. 

There  had  been  a  Mrs.  Quinby  now  for  nearly  two 
years.  A  pretty,  gentle-voiced,  blue-eyed  woman, 


A  TENACIOUS  MAtf.  $ 

something  of  the  Griselda  type,  but  a  veritable  sharer 
of  his  sorrows  and  partaker  of  his  joys. 

The  external  signs,  however,  of  Mr.  Quinby's  inward 
Satisfaction  were  all  expended  on  that  brisk  "  click"  to 
his  combination  lock,  that  hurried  investment  of  his 
topcoat  and  the  putting  on  of  his  gloves  as  he  walked. 
By  the  time  he  stepped  out  of  the  elevator  on  the 
ground  floor  of  Ford,  Farnham  &  Co.'s  building  he 
was  to  all  outward  seeming  the  same  solidly  composed, 
imperturbable  business  man,  who  was  as  familiar  an  ob- 
ject in  Front  street  as  the  blue-coated  policeman  or  the 
gray-coated  letter-carrier  of  his  beat.  So  assured,  in- 
deed, was  Mr.  Quinby's  position  as  a  successful  man, 
that  he  was  already,  though  still  in  his  early  thirties, 
often  utilized  to  point  a  moral  for  the  benefit  of  young 
men  who  were  not  doing  as  well  as  might  be  ex- 
pected. 

"  There's  Quinby  now,"  some  veteran  in  the  ranks 
of  the  bread-winners  would  say  to  some  raw  recruit 
"with  advisory  emphasis,  "  look  at  him  !  Quinby  began 
life  as  a  messenger  boy  in  the  house  of  Ford,  Farnham 
&  Co.  when  he  was  ten  years  old  at  two  dollars  a  week. 
Yes,  sir,  two  dollars  a  week,  and  glad  enough  to  get  it 
too.  Look  at  him  now !  Hale,  handsome,  happy ! 
Pretty  wife,  snug  home,  fifteen  thousand  a  year,  not  a 
care  in  the  world  !  What  did  he  do  ?  He  stuck,  sir ! 
that  is  all.  Simply  stuck  ;  and  where  is  he  now  ?  Step 
by  step,  round  by  round,  he  has  climbed  the  ladder, 


4  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

the  ladder  he  started  on,  bear  in  mind,  sir,  Ford,  Farn- 
ham  &  Co.'s  ladder,  not  skipping  all  around  town  to  see 
if  somebody  wouldn't  help  him  to  an  easier  ladder  to 
climb,  until  he  is  just  one  round  below  the  top.  He  is 
as  high  in  the  concern  now  as  he  can  be  without  being 
full  partner,  and  that  will  come  before  he  is  much 
older,  for  he  has  made  himself  essential  to  them  ;  yes, 
sir,  absolutely  essential.  They  couldn't  do  without 
him.  He  knows  it,  and  they  know  it,  and  they  all 
know  they  know  it.  That  is  all  you  have  to  do,  sir. 
Find  your  ladder,  plant  your  feet  fast  on  the  first  round, 
take  a  firm  grip  of  your  hand  on  the  next  and  climb. 
Do  your  own  climbing.  Don't  be  calling  down  for 
some  other  fellow  to  give  you  a  boost  every  round. 
There's  nothing  especially  wonderful  about  John 
Quinby,  except  his  tenacity.  He  never  lets  go  an 
idea  once  he  has  given  it  a  favorable  hearing." 

When,  with  a  final  "  Yes,  sir,"  and  a  go-thou-and-do- 
likewise  peroration,  the  veteran  who,  perhaps,  by  rea- 
son of  his  own  failures  in  life,  felt  peculiarly  fitted  for 
the  position  of  adviser,  would  dismiss  the  recruit  with 
a  comfortable  sense  of  having  done  much  toward 
starting  him  up  the  ladder  of  success.  While  the  re- 
cruit would  vaguely  wish  himself  John  Quinby,  or  on 
John  Quinby's  ladder. 

Perhaps  Mr.  Quinby  himself  had  not  so  far  outlived 
the  struggles  of  his  harder  years  as  to  have  forgotten 
the  knocks  and  bruises  he  endured  during  the  slow 


A    TENACIOUS  MAN.  5 

climb  which  made  his  later  paths  of  pleasantness  all 
the  more  agreeable. 

Perhaps  he  even  posed  for  himself  as  a  model  worthy 
of  all  imitation,  not  offensively,  you  know,  simply  com- 
placently, with  conscious  unconsciousness;-  for  it 
stands  to  reason  that  each  new  elevation  in  the  Hill 
Difficulty,  must  leave  one  slightly  breathless,  and  calls 
a  pause  long  enough  for  one  to  give  a  backward  sweep 
of  the  eye  over  the  plateau  just  left  behind.  Perhaps 
some  such  pleasant  retrospection  as  this  occupied  Mr. 
Quinby's  mind  and  illumined  his  fine  clear  gray  eyes 
as  he  stood  upon  the  bow  of  the  Jersey  City  ferry-boat 
awaiting  the  dropping  of  the  guard  that  confined  the 
herded  passengers  and  prevented  their  impetuous  de- 
parture from  the  boat  before  she  was  securely  wind- 
lassed  to  the  pier  on  the  Jersey  side  of  the  river,  for  it 
was  over  in  the  dreamy,  pretty,  half-forsaken  town  of 
Elizabeth  that  Mrs.  John  Quinby  was  nested,  and 
toward  which  Mr.  Quinby  was  hastening  with  his 
burden  of  good  news. 

The  further  behind  him  Mr.  Quinby  left  the  purely 
commercial  atmosphere  of  his  New  York  office,  where 
every  venture  was  put  to  the  one  single  test  "will  it 
pay  ?  "  and  the  nearer  he  approached  the  serene  environ- 
ment of  the  pretty  home  in  Broad  street  over  which 
the  spirit  of  love  and  peace  had  brooded  undisturbed 
through  all  his  married  life,  the  more  conscious  he 
became  that  there  was  one  mote  in  the  broad  ray  of 


6  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

sunshine  that  had  fallen  so  suddenly  across  his  path- 
way that  day.  He  wondered  if  Anna — that  was  Mrs. 
Quinby — would  mistake  this  mote  for  a  beam — women 
are  given  to  exaggerations  of  that  sort,  and,  as  a  rule, 
the  better  the  woman  the  greater  the  exaggeration.  He 
should  be  sorry  to  have  his  wife  magnify  things  un- 
comfortably ;  not  that  it  would  make  any  material  dif- 
ference in  the  result,  only,  he  should  prefer  that  what 
he  regarded  as  a  mote,  should  be  regarded  as  a  mote, 
and  nothing  more  than  a  mote,  in  Mrs.  Quinby's  eyes 
too.  But  with  all  her  gentleness  and  habitual  submis- 
siveness  Mrs.  Quinby  had  great  reserves  of  obstinacy 
and  self-will  that  asserted  themselves  at  the  most  unex- 
pected junctures.  He  smiled  in  perplexed  amusement 
to  think  what  a  rich  juncture  he  was  about  to  offer  for 
the  exercise  of  both.  To  make  no  longer  mystery  of 
Mr.  Quinby's  secret  source  of  satisfaction  and  of  appre- 
hension he  had,  that  day,  and  without  the  harsh  inter- 
vention of  death,  either,  (he  had  long  ago  settled  the 
date  of  his  co-partnership  as  the  date  of  death  for  one 
of  the  firm),  been  taken  into  full  partnership  with  Ford, 
Farnham  &  Co.,  who,  having  resolved  to  extend  their 
business  by  establishing  a  branch  house  in  Salt  Lake 
City,  had  decided  that  John  Quinby  was  better  qualified 
than  the  older  heads  of  the  house  to  take  the  helm  in 
those  untried  waters.  In  all  of  which  Mr.  Quinby  had 
fully  agreed  with  them  ;  in  fact,  had  experienced  some 
difficulty  in  hiding  from  his  heads  the  full  measure  of 


A   TENACIOUS  MAN.  f 

elation  he  experienced.  But  nature  does  not  bestow 
the  iron  jaw  and  square-hewn  chin  which  were  among 
Mr.  Quinby's  most  marked  physical  points  meaning- 
lessly.  He  had  received  the  great  proposition  with  a 
fine  show  of  indifference  and  told  Messrs.  Ford,  Farnham 
&  Co.,  that  he  would  let  them  know  in  ten  days  whether 
or  not  he  would  go.  Go !  of  course  he  would  go.  He 
repeated  this  decision  so  often  and  with  such  seeming 
disproportion  of  emphasis  to  himself,  as  he  traveled 
towards  his  quiet  home  in  quaint  Elizabeth,-  that  he 
finally  turned  upon  the  opposition  and  stood  at  bay. 
Mrs.  Quinby  unconsciously  posed  for  the  opposition. 
"  Anna  was  a  sweet  woman  but  a  trifle  narrow."  As  Mr. 
Quinby  thus  mentally  summed  up  the  moral  forces 
against  which  he  was  bracing  his  nerves  to  contend,  he 
stroked  the  long  mustache  that  drooped  gracefully 
away  from  his  upper  lip  until  its  foxy  red  ends  rested 
on  his  strong,  square  chin,  as  who  should  say,  however 
open  Mrs.  Quinby  might  be  to  the  charge  of  narrow- 
ness, Mr.  Quinby  was  singularly  free  from  it.  Yes, 
Anna  was  rather  more  than  a  trifle  narrow.  More  the 
result  of  education,  he  supposed,  than  any  constitutional 
deficiency,  but  the  consequences  were  nevertheless  un- 
pleasant. Now  Mr.  Quinby  had  not  been  the  some- 
what masterful  husband  of  his  wife  for  nearly  two  years 
without  having  acquired  an  intimate  knowledge  of  all 
the  possibilities  of  every  conceivable  situation. 

The  possibilities  of  the  present  situation  were  any 


8  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

thing  but  re-assuring.  He  smiled  pityingly  all  to  him- 
self, as  he  left  the  cars  and  struck  off  afoot  up  the 
quiet,  shady  street  toward  his  home,  as  he  pictured  her 
look  of  horror  and  heard  her  plaintive  "  Oh !  John, 
Utah ! "  Yes,  he  knew  well  enough  beforehand,  if  a 
residence  in  Salt  Lake  City  struck  his  un-Mormonized 
mind  with  just  enough  of  repulsion  to  produce  a  mote 
in  his  sunlight,  it  would  assume  the  magnitude  of  an 
enormous  beam  in  his  wife's  view.  All  women  were 
incapable  of  taking  large  views  on  some  subjects.  This 
was  one  of  them.  He  wished  that  the  grand  news  of 
his  advancement  might  have  been  without  any  draw- 
back at  all.  But  although  arrogantly  aware  that  he  was 
the  architect  of  his  own  future,  he  had  to  build  with 
such  tools  as  he  must,  not  as  he  would.  No  doubt  Mrs. 
Quinby  would  even  try  to  turn  him  from  his  resolve. 
He  laughed  dryly  at  the  folly  of  such  an  attempt.  He 
knew  beforehand  just  what  arguments  she  would  use. 
Anna  was  not  only  a  trifle  narrow,  she  was  entirely 
devoid  of  ambition.  Perhaps  that  was  very  well  in  view 
of  her  sex.  She  would  argue  that  the  house  they  lived 
in  had  been  her  home  ever  since  she  was  born  and  no 
other  spot  could  ever  seem  like  home  to  her.  Quite, 
you  know,  as  if  a  pile  of  crumbling  bricks  and  mortar 
that  had  the  one  virtue  of  familiarity,  should  be  allowed 
to  compete  with  the  colossal  structure  of  Mr.  Quinby's 
success  in  life  !  She  would  say  she  was  as  happy  as  she 
could  be  where  she  was,  and  more  comfortable  than  she 


A   TENACIOUS  MAN.  9 

could  be  any  where  else.  Anna  always  took  such  a 
narrowly  personal  view  of  every  suggestion !  Yes,  he 
flattered  himself  he  had  made  her  happy  and  comfort- 
able. All  the  more  reason  why  now  she  should  be 
willing  to  sacrifice  something  to  his  interests.  She  was 
sure  to  say,  "  they  were  well  enough  as  they  were."  But 
a  man  is  never  well  enough  if  a  better  state  of  affairs  is 
possible.  That  better  possibility  had  after  all  come  to 
him  rather  unexpectedly  after  his  long  waiting  for  it, 
and  it  had  not  come  in  just  the  shape  he  had  asked  it 
of  Fate.  For  the  definite  demand  he  had  preferred  at 
the  courts  of  destiny  some  time  ago,  was  for  a  full 
partnership  in  the  firm  of  Ford,  Farnham  &  Co.,  without 
the  condition  of  exile  annexed.  As,  however,  with  all 
his  iron  will,  Mr.  Quinby  had  never  yet  been  able  to 
bend  destiny  into  subserviency,  he  was  content  to  take 
the  coveted  partnership,  annex  and  all,  and  pronounce  it 
altogether  good. 

That  Anna  would  not,  he  was  quite  aware  in  advance. 
But  then,  Anna  and  destiny  were  in  no  one  particular 
alike.  He  was  as  sure  of  his  ability  to  manage  the  one 
as  he  was  of  his  inability  to  cope  with  the  other. 
"  She's  sure  to  kick  at  first,"  said  Mr.  Quinby,  settling 
his  wife's  status,  as  he  fitted  the  latch  key  into  his 
front  door,  "  but  she'll  soon  give  in." 

Mr.  Quinby  was  not  unique  in  that  he  was  always 
prepared  to  accept  the  sacrifice  of  his  wife's  individuality 
in  bland  unconsciousness  that  any  sacrifice  was  involved. 


M 


CHAPTER  II. 

MOTES  AND   BEAMS. 

R.  QUINBY  was  too  shrewd  a  humanist  to  under- 
value strategy  in  the  domestic  circle,  and  too 
much  of  an  epicurean  to  mix  emotion  with  his  salad 
dressing.  He  preferred  to  bide  his  time  for  the  telling 
of  his  important  news,  rather  than  risk  cooling  his  soup 
with  Mrs.  Quinby's  tears,  or  taking  the  flavor  out  of 
his  roast-beef  by  eating  it  opposite  a  frowning  spouse. 
Arguments,  he  judged,  were  never  more  indigestible 
than  when  served  up  with  cold  potatoes.  Moreover, 
the  dinner-table  is  not  a  good  strategic  point.  One 
always  runs  the  risk  of  having  a  telling  point  drowned 
in  the  clatter  of  knives  and  forks,  or  the  loss  of  dra- 
matic pause,  by  the  exigent  hunger  of  his  auditors. 
So  he  sat  at  the  head  of  his  nicely  appointed  dinner- 
table  in  self-contained  serenity,  beaming  impartially  on 
Mrs.  Quinby,  who  was  looking  prettily  conscious  of  a 
new  blue  dress  just  home  from  the  dress-maker,  and 
the  one  other  member  of  his  small  household,  with 
very  much  the  sensations  of  a  man  whose  pockets  are 
full  of  dynamite  of  which  he  intends  presently  to  make 
active  use. 


MOTES  AND  BEAMS.  II 

The  "one  other,  member"  of  Mr.  Quinby's  house- 
hold was  his  brother  Anthony,  his  senior  by  some  six 
years,  and  his  only  living  relative.  Only  a  fragment  of  a 
relative  after  all,  physically  speaking,  for  Anthony 
Quinby  had  brought  back  from  the  battle  of  Gettys- 
burg scarcely  more  than  enough  of  a  once,  handsome 
person  to  contain  his  lofty  soul  and  big  heart,  useless 
for  all  the  practical  purposes  of  life,  unless  it  was  to 
act  as  a  sort  of  moral  ballast  to  his  younger  and  more 
worldly  minded  brother. 

People  who  dropped  in  of  evenings  on  the  Quinbys 
(and,  notwithstanding  its  close  proximity  to  New  York 
r"ity,  the  social  art  of  dropping  in,  is  still  extant  in 
Elizabeth)  always  went  away  freshly  impressed  with 
the  placidity  of  the  atmosphere  in  the  Quinby  house- 
hold. Anthony,  who  was  saved  from  a  galling  sense  of 
dependence  on  his  brother  by  his  ability  to  write  ac- 
ceptable articles  for  the  New  York  papers  and  maga- 
zines, contributed  to  the  amusement  of  the  family-circle 
by  reading  aloud  of  evenings.  Mr.  Quinby,  slippered 
and  cigared,  divested  of  his  Front  street  activities  and 
Wall  street  anxieties  for  the  time  being,  resolved  him- 
self, usually,  into  an  amiable  absorbent  of  whatever 
his  wife  had  to  tell  him  verbally,  or  Anthony  dispense 
oracularly  from  the  printed  page,  and  was  conscious  of 
his  own  extreme  satisfaction  with  the  general  manage- 
ment of  his  affairs  by  his  agent  Fate ;  while  Mrs. 
Quinby  accepted  the  goods  the  gods  provided  with  un- 


12  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

questioning  belief  that  so  long  as  she  did  nothing  the 
decalogue  distinctly  forbade  her  doing,  she  would  be 
left  in  undisturbed  possession  of  her  happiness,  her 
home,  and  of — John  !  That  her  undivided  possession  of 
this  last  element  of  happiness  should  ever  be  questioned 
never  once  entered  her  wildest  imaginings. 

But  on  this  especial  evening  Mr.  Quinby  did  not  feel 
equal  to  listening  to  Felix  Holt  for  an  hour  or  two 
without  disburdening  himself,  as  admirable  as  that 
work  of  fiction  was,  and  as  well  as  Anthony  read  it. 

"  Suppose  we  give  Felix  a  rest  to-night,"  he  sug- 
gested, inserting  one  plea  for  the  radical  and  two  for 
himself,  as  he  lighted  his  own  cigar  and  held  the  match 
to  Anthony's.  "  I  have  something  to  talk  to  you  and 
Anna  about  to-night,  which  I  think  will  interest  us  all 
much  more  than  finding  out  how  Felix  is  going  to  get 
out  of  jail." 

"  And  it's  something  very  nice,  I'm  quite  sure,"  says 
Mrs.  Quinby,  looking  at  her  husband  with  her  pretty 
head  very  much  on  one  side.  But  Mr.  Quinby's  full 
gaze  just  then  was  fixed  upon  the  gas-flames  that 
danced  over  the  asbestos  logs  in  a  pretty  conspiracy 
with  them  to  cheat  the  ignorant  into  a  belief  that  they 
were  enjoying  a  delightful  old-fashioned  wood  fire.  His 
profile  was  non-committal,  so  Mrs.  Quinby  unpinned  the 
handkerchief  she  had  brought  from  the  much  be-ribboned 
work-basket  in  the  corner,  and  laying  its  folded  corners 
back,  took  up  a  mysterious  study  in  blue  floss  on  white 


MO  TES  A  ND  BE  A  MS.  1 3 

cashmere  that  had  occupied  her  ringers  for  so  many 
evenings  now  that  the  most  unobservant  of  men 
must  long  since  have  discovered  it  to  be  a  thing  of 
parts,  with  backs  and  fronts  and  sleeves,  all  of  the 
most  miniature  proportions  and  fairy-like  delicacy. 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  something  good  ;  something  very  good  I 
may  say.  I  will  give  you  two  guesses  apiece.  You 
first,  Mrs.  Q." 

"West  Shore  bonds  have  gone  way  up  !  "  says  Mrs. 
Quinby  in  a  voice  of  elated  conviction  that  nothing 
better  could  possibly  happen  for  them  all,  as  even  she 
and  Anthony  have  dabbled  timidly  in  that  stock. 

"  No  ;  West  Shore  bonds  are  tumbling  clean  out  of 
sight." 

"  Why  don't  you  sell  out  then  ?  "  Anthony  interpo- 
lates practically. 

"  Haven't  been  able  yet  to  find  any  body  anxious 
enough  to  sacrifice  himself  for  my  benefit.  Guess 
again,  Anna." 

"They  are  going  to  put  another  window  in  your 
office  so  that  you  shall  not  die  of  malaria  in  that  dark 
hole." 

Mrs.  Quinby  offers  this  second  guess  with  moderate 
confidence  only.  She  feels  sure  that,  important  as  it 
has  always  seemed  to  her,  and  vigorously  as  she  has  in- 
sisted on  it,  after  every  visit  to  her  husband's  rather 
poorly  lighted  office,  John  was  not  likely  to  think  it 
worth  a  guess  or  a  pleasant  mystification. 


14  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

Mr.  Quinby's  contemptuous  laugh  told  her  she  had 
far  undershot  the  mark. 

"  Well,  Tony,  it's  your  turn  ;  Anna's  ideas  of  good 
news  are  rather  meek  and  lowly." 

"  You've  got  the  partnership,"  says  Anthony  in  a 
positive  voice.  He  was  quite  sure  that  nothing  less 
would  account  for  the  gleaming  triumph  in  John's 
eyes. 

"  But  no ! "  Mrs.  Quinby's  voice  was  full  of  awed 
incredulity. 

"But  yes!"  Mr.  Quinby  turned  his  illumined  face 
from  the  dancing  gas  jets  full  upon  his  wife  and 
brother.  The  dancing  light  seemed  to  abide  in  his 
clear,  gray  eyes  and  make  him  adorably  handsome  in 
Anna's  fond  estimation. 

"  Who  is  dead  ? "  she  asks,  ready  to  moderate  her 
transports  in  accordance  with  the  demands  of  decency, 
but  prepared  to  bear  the  death  of  either  one  of  the 
firm  with  fortitude  and  resignation. 

"  Nobody  !  at  least,  neither  Ford  nor  Farnham,  nor 
Colfax,  our  '  Co.' " 

"  But  I  thought  you  said  all  along,  John,  that  they 
had  no  more  use  for  another  partner  than  a  wagon  had 
for  two  tongues." 

"  Neither  have  they  in  New  York,  but  they  propose 
to  branch  out,"  says  Mr.  Quinby. 

"  Branching  out "  had  such  an  opulent  sound  that 
Mrs.  Quinby  just  gave  a  little  gurgle  of  satisfaction, 


MOTES  AND  BEAMS.  15 

and  sat  quite  mute,  ready  to  receive  the  magnificent 
details  of  the  scheme  that  promised  advancement  for 
John. 

"  In  what  direction  ?  " 

Just  there  Mr.  Quinby  found  it  expedient  to  close 
the  inside  shutters  to  the  front  window  immediately 
behind  his  back.  He  said  something  about  a  draught 
when  he  got  up,  and  something  else  about  sand  bags 
when  he  sat  down  again.  He  had  rather  Anthony 
had  not  voiced  his  interest  in  the  subject  in  form  of 
so  direct  a  question. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  quite  as  if  they  had  all  had 
time  to  forget  every  thing  that  had  gone  before,  "  we 
have  outgrown  New  York.  We  want  more  elbow- 
room,"  he  adds,  expansively,  while  Anna  murmurs 
ecstatically,  "  delightful !  " 

"  It's  a  pretty  solid  concern,  I  guess,"  says  Anthony, 
contributing  a  generalization  this  time. 

"  I  should  say  so.  The  rock  of  Gibraltar  isn't  any 
more  solid."  Mr.  Quinby  is  quite  willing  to  dally 
with  his  finale. 

"  There  are  three  very  solid  men  at  the  head  of  it,  too. 
Respectable  in  every  way.  And  good  sound  Chris- 
tian principle  underlying  all  their  operations.  Ford 
and  Colfax  are  both  stanch  members  of  Dr.  John  Hill's 
church.  Farnham,  I  believe,  goes  to  Talman's  over 
in  Brooklyn.  Didn't  we  hear  Mrs.  Farnham  say  so, 
Anna?" 


1 6  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  I  really  don't  know.  Yes,  I  believe  she  did,  John, 
but  I  don't  feel  at  all  positive.  It's  been  a  year  since 
I  saw  Mrs.  Farnham."  Mrs.  Quinby  tried  to  bestir 
her  one-idea'd  soul  to  some  interest  in  the  moral  welfare 
of  Ford,  Farnham  &  Co.,  but  was  conscious  of  a  shame- 
ful apathy  in  that  direction.  At  present  the  partner- 
ship was  all  that  her  mind  could  chamber. 

"  Excellent  men,  all  of  them,  who  would  neither  do 
themselves  nor  ask  another  man  to  do  any  thing  con- 
trary to  the  laws  of  right  and  wrong,"  says  Mr. 
Quinby,  continuing  the  building  of  his  fortifications 
against  the  hour  of  attack.  "  I've  never  had  occasion 
to  think  any  thing  but  well  of  them,  collectively,  and 
individually,  since  the  day  I  entered  their  office  as  a 
messenger  boy  at  two  dollars  a  week." 

Mrs.  Quinby  winced  perceptibly,  and  gave  rather  a 
spiteful  twitch  to  the  needleful  of  blue  floss  that  was 
just  then  defining  a  scallop  in  the  white  cashmere.  Of 
course  it  was  a  matter  of  family  history  that  John  had 
begun  thus  humbly,  but  one's  antecedents  were  some- 
what like  one's  ancestors,  only  to  be  served  up  when 
occasion  required,  not  hauled  in  for  daily  inspection  or 
criticism.  The  days  of  John's  messenger-boy-ship 
ante-dated  her  acquaintance  with  him,  and  she  did  not 
propose  to  cultivate  him  so  far  back. 

"Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  the  house  sent 
for  me  this  morning,  and  told  me  of  the  final  determi- 
nation to  establish  a  branch-house  with  me  as  its  full 


MO  TES  A  ND  BE  A  MS.  I  ^ 

head  and  manager,  as  the  'Co.'  of  the  New  York  house 
of  Ford,  Farnham,  Colfax  &  Co.,  with  the  understand- 
ing that  the  death  or  retirement  of  any  member  of  the 
old  firm  was  to  entitle  me  to  step  into  his  vacant  place. 
Handsomer  showing  or  more  liberal  terms,  I  could  not 
ask." 

"  But  where  are  you  to  branch  to,  John  ?"  asks  Mrs. 
Quinby,  naturally  interested,  as  the  branching  process 
must  involve  herself  as  well  as  husband. 

Mr.  Quinby  flung  the  remnant  of  his  first  cigar  into 
the  highly  ornamental  cuspadore  that  flanked  the 
asbestos  logs  on  his  side  of  the  fire-place ;  bit  off  the 
end  of  a  second  and  lighted  it  at  Anthony's  glowing 
one  ;  assumed  an  attitude  of  rather  over-done  compos- 
ure and  projected  his  explosive  into  the  bosom  of  his 
family:  "Salt  Lake  City!" 

"  Utah  !  "  Anthony  and  Anna  both  demanded  in  a 
breath. 

"  My  geography  makes  mention  of  no  other,"  says 
Mr.  Quinby,  preparing  to  get  behind  his  fortifications 
and  man  his  guns. 

" Oh  !  John  !  " 

"Well?" 

He  turned  his  very  coldest  face  toward  his  wife.  He 
had  taken  unusual  pains,  he  flattered  himself,  to  place 
the  advantages  of  this  partnership  before  her.  He  did 
not  propose  to  temporize  any  further.  Projecting  his 
vision  into  the  future,  he  saw  himself  living  in  the 


1 8  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

iniquitous  capital  of  the  Mormons,  among  them  but 
not  of  them,  setting  a  shining  example  of  mono- 
gamic  virtue  to  the  weaker  brethren  around  him,  even 
proselyting  them,  by  sheer  force  of  example,  to  forsake 
the  error  of  their  ways  and  cleave  only  unto  one  wife 
at  a  time.  Not  that  he  had  argued  it  all  out  on  this 
base.  He  simply  did  not  care  a  continental  for  the 
social  relations  or  religious  peculiarities  of  the  dwellers 
in  that  lovely  valley.  There  was  money  and  prefer- 
ment waiting  for  him  there  and  he  was  going  after 
them,  that  was  all ! 

Projecting  her  vision  into  the  future  Anna  saw  her 
husband  surrounded  by  influences  confusing  to  the 
most  well  established  principles.  Saw  him  living  in  an 
atmosphere  of  such  moral  be-fogment  that  the  forms 
of  duty  and  morality  all  became  distorted  and  mon- 
strous. Saw  John  first  enduring,  then  pitying,  then 
embracing  the  hideous  monster  of  Mormonism.  Saw 
her  own  husband,  her  own  exclusive,,  dear  husband, 
reduced  to  a  sum  in  complex  fractions,  herself  only 
one  of  numberless  numerators  with  John  for  a  common 
denominator.  Salt  Lake  City  had  but  one  aspect  for 
her  as  a  woman.  That  aspect  was  altogether  vile. 
She  sat  dumb  and  white  while  her  husband  proceeded 
volubly  to  give  Anthony  a  fuller  idea  of  the  scope  and 
intention  of  the  new  branch  house. 

Mr.  Quinby  was  rather  unprepared  for  this  mute- 
ness of  protest  on  his  wife's  part.  It  threw  him  some- 


MO  TES  A  ND  BE  A  MS.  1 9 

what  out  in  his  reckoning.  He  had  expected  wordy 
opposition  and  had  his  ammunition  all  ready  for  a 
return  charge.  But  how  can  a  man  argue  against  the 
white  pain  in  a  woman's  face,  or  combat  the  mournful 
plea  of  a  troubled  eye  ?  She  sat  near  enough  for  him 
to  touch  her.  He  laid  his  large  warm  hand  on  hers, 
as  she  sat  with  them  folded  in  her  lap.  Hers  were  as 
cold  as  two  little  lumps  of  ice  and  as  unresponsive  to 
the  affectionate  pressure,  which,  perhaps,  in  all  their 
married  life  had  never  before  failed  of  its  mission. 
Strategy  and  coaxing  are  widely  differing  agencies. 
Mr.  Quinby  frequently  condescended  to  strategy, 
never  to  coaxing. 

"Your  hands  are  cold,"  he  said,  quite  as  if  her 
physical  temperature  were  the  prime  thing  under  con- 
sideration, and  left  his  warmer  one  covering  them  just 
long  enough  to  make  sure  that  no  response  was  coming. 

"  Have  you  quite  decided  ?  "  Anthony  asked,  looking 
quickly  away  from  Anna's  white  face  to  the  asbestos 
logs. 

"Quite." 

Mr.  Quinby's  voice  was  altogether  uncompromising. 

Mrs.  Quinby  folded  up  the  study  in  blue  floss  with 
dainty  precision,  pinned  the  corners  of  the  handker- 
chief together,  and  said  as  she  came  back  empty- 
handed  from  the  be-ribboned  work-basket : 

"  I  think,  John,  if  you  and  Anthony  will  excuse  me, 
I  will  go  to  bed." 


20  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  Do,  my  dear.  You  look  tired."  Mr.  Quinby  got 
up,  and  encircling  his  wife's  waist  with  his  arm,  while 
he  held  his  cigar  well  out  of  her  face,  affectionately 
kissed  her  good-night.  There  was  no  doubt  about  it. 
Mr.  Quinby  rarely  left  undone  any  one  of  the  things  a 
good  husband  ought  to  do. 

When  the  two  men  were  alone  Anthony  drew  nearer 
to  the  gas  logs,  and  idly  poking  the  shining  brass  tongs 
which  belonged  to  the  fiction  of  the  wood-fire,  into  the 
shooting  jets  of  flames,  asked  without  looking  at  his 
brother : 

"  Will  it  be  a  very  immediate  thing  ?  " 

"  The  opening  of  the  branch  house  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  I  presume  it  will.  They  are  only  waiting  for  my 
answer." 

A  relieved  look  came  into  Anthony's  face.  "  You 
have  not  given  it,  then?" 

"  No.  I  have  not  given  it  to  them.  I  have  no 
idea  of  letting  them  see  how  eagerly  I  nibble  at  the 
hook." 

"  Anna  don't  like  it,  evidently,"  says  Anthony. 

"  I  was  quite  prepared  for  opposition  in  that  quarter. 
I'm  sorry,  but  it  can  not  be  helped." 

"  Perhaps  she  wouldn't  mind  it  so  much  at  any  other 
time." 

Mr.  Quinby  stared. 

"  You  know  it  will  be  pretty  rough  on  her  to  give  up 


MOTES  AND  BEAMS.  21 

her  familiar  surroundings  and  her  mother  and  her  own 
doctor  just  now." 

"  By  George,  Tony,  you  ought  to  have  been  a 
woman." 

Anthony  flushed  dark  red,  and  the  shining  tongs  fell 
back  alongside  their  shining  comrades,  shovel  and 
poker,  with  a  metallic  ring.  John  reached  over,  and, 
putting  an  apologetic  hand  upon  his  brother's  knee, 
said  with  affectionate  warmth  of  voice  and  eye, 

"  Don't  misunderstand  me,  old  fellow.  I  simply 
meant  you  were  so  deucedly  thoughtful,  just  like  a 
woman  for  all  the  world.  You've  pointed  out  a  hitch 
that  had  never  suggested  itself  to  me." 

"  Perhaps  you  could  get  them  to  let  the  branching 
out  lay  over  until  you  know — well,  until  after — 

A  contemplative  silence  fell  between  the  two  men. 
Anthony  was  thinking  that  if  he  succeeded  in  get- 
ting the  day  postponed,  perhaps  Providence  would 
lend  a  helping  hand  to  get  the  scheme  broken  up 
altogether.  John  was  inquiring  of  conscience  how 
things  could  be  worked  out  so  as  to  leave  him  void  of 
offense  toward  the  wife  who  was  the  dearest  woman  in 
all  the  world,  and  yet  not  jeopardize  the  partnership 
which  would  elevate  him  to  the  very  highest  round  of 
the  ladder  he  had  been  climbing  so  patiently  and  hope- 
fully. He  finally  broke  the  silence  with  his  most  dicta- 
torial voice  : 

"  I  have  thought  of  a  way,  Anthony,  to  smooth  mat- 


22  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

ters  for  all  of  us.  I  certainly  can  not  afford  to  throw 
away  the  thing  I  have  been  working  up  to  all  those 
years,  just  as  it  lies  within  my  grasp.  I'm  not  going  to 
say  I  wouldn't  rather  the  lines  had  fallen  to  me  here  in 
New  York.  I  am  sorry  Anna  takes  it  so  much  to 
heart.  It  is  quite  absurd,  you  know,  and  I  beg  of  you 
not  to  show  her  in  any  way  that  you  share  her  foolish 
prejudices  in  this  matter.  I  can  see  that  you  do.  I 
confess  I  had  looked  for  something  a  little  broader  from 
you.  Hang  it  all!  am  I  a  piece  of  putty  to  be  punched 
into  any  shape  by  a  lot  of  latter-day  saints  or  devils  for 
whom  I  haven't  any  more  respect  than  for  a  herd  of 
cattle?  If  I  find  that  in  order  to  secure  this  partner- 
ship I  must  go  out  immediately,  I  shall  clo  so.  I  owe  it 
to  myself,  to  my  wife  and  to  our  children,"  he  added, 
projecting  his  sense  of  responsibility  a  little  in  advance. 
"  Mrs.  Quinby  can  remain  here,  in  her  own  house,  where 
her  mother  and  her  own  physician  are  within  stone- 
throw,  until  she  is  able  to  join  me.  Then  you  will 
bring  her  out  to  me,  and  we  will  take  up  in  that  new 
land,  the  old  happy  life  we've  led  here  plus  another 
element  I  hope.  I'll  talk  to  Anna  to-night." 

And  with  a  sense  of  having  cut  the  only  knot  he  was 
not  skillful  enough  to  untie,  Mr.  Quinby  stretched  his 
fine  legs  luxuriously  alongthe  Smyrna  rug,  as  he  leaned 
back  in  his  bent-wood  chair  and  sent  long  wreaths  of 
smoke  silently  curling  ceilingward. 

Booking  at  him  as  he  sat  there  in  masterful  serenity, 


MOTES  AND  BEAMS.  23 

Anthony  Quinby  gave  fleeting  audience  to  a  train  of 
bitter  reflection  : 

How  would  it  have  been  if  he  had  come  back  from 
the  wars  whole  and  straight  and  strong  as  John  was 
now  ?  John  was  a  mere  stripling  when  he,  Anthony, 
had  gone  away  from  Elizabeth  with  his  heart  full  of 
patriotism  and  love  for  Anna  Abbott.  He  had  meant 
to  tell  her  if  he  got  back  safe,  but  he  hadn't  gotten 
back  safe,  at  least  not  sound.  He  had  gotten  back 
lopped  of  an  arm  and  with  a  distorted  shoulder  and  an 
ugly  scar  on  his  cheek.  All  his  beauty  gone  ! 

So  he  had  never  told  Anna,  or  any  body  else,  about 
the  foolish  fancies  he  had  fed  his  heart  on,  in  the  joy- 
less days  of  bivouac  and  battle,  and  he  had  kissed  her 
for  the  first  time  when  John  had  presented  her  to  him 
as  a  sister,  and  with  God's  help  he  would  be  her  true  and 
loyal  brother  unto  the  bitter  end. 

"  Well,"  he  said  aloud,  rising,  and  reaching  for  his- 
cane,  "  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  arrange  matters  to 
suit  yourself." 

"  I  am  most  likely  to  do  so,"  says  John,  smiling  up 
at  him  blandly  through  his  smoke-wreaths. 

"Goodnight!" 

"  Good  night,  Tony." 

And  slumberous  silence  soon  fell  on  the  little  house 
jn  Broad  street, 


CHAPTER  III. 

TWO   LETTERS   OF   ONE   DATE. 

ON  the  evening  of  August  the  fifteenth  of  the  year 
1 88 — ,  Mr.  John  Quinby,  sitting  at  a  writing  table 
in  the  reading  room  of  the  Walker  House,  Salt  Lake 
City,  wrote  to  his  brother  Anthony  as  follows : 

"  My  dear  Tony — As  my  last  was  to  Anna  this  shall 
be  to  you,  but  as  I  suppose  my  letters  are  common 
property — at  least  what  is  yours  is  hers,  if  hers  is  not 
yours — it  will  do  for  the  family.  Moreover,  I  expect 
more  from  you  in  the  letter  line  than  frcm  my  dear 
little  wife,  who,  no  doubt,  is  troubled  about  many 
things  at  present.  My  best  thoughts  are  with  her  and 
of  her  constantly,  and  I  take  immense  delight  in  pic- 
turing to  myself  the  happiness  we  will  all  take  up  again 
soon,  just  where  we  dropped  it  a  little  while  back.  At 
present,  although  living  en  garcon,  I  am  altogether 
comfortable  in  spite  of  my  separation  from  my  dear 
ones. 

"  I  continue  to  be  charmed  with  the  physical  features 
of  this  singularly  blessed  region,  and  my  respect  is  also 
imperatively  demanded  for  the  men  who  have  in  so 


TWO  LETTERS  OF  ONE  DA  TE.  25 

marvelously  short  a  period  of  time,  rescued   a  wilder- 
ness and  caused  it  to  blossom  like  a  garden. 

"  As  I  wrote  Anna,  I  am  located  at  the  Walker 
House,  where  I  have  first-class  accommodations  at  very 
reasonable  rates.  The  city  is  well  provided  with  good 
hotels,  and  in  point  of  thrift,  honesty  and  neatness  we 
Gentiles  might  take  many  a  lesson  from  these  Saints. 
The  city  has  an  altitude  of  four  thousand  two  hundred 
and  sixty-one  feet  above  the  sea  level  and  the  climate 
is  absolutely  perfect,  in  my  estimation.  The  mean  sum- 
mer temperature  is  about  seventy-four  degrees,  and, 
although  at  present  we  have  reached  the  maximum  of 
ninety,  the  heat  never  continues  into  the  night,  and  I 
wish  I  might  hope  that  you  and  Anna  were  enjoying 
the  delightfully  refreshing  breeze  that  keeps  my  paper 
a-flutter.  There  is  no  comparison  between  the  comfort 
of  this  climate  and  the  average  eastern  climate  of  the 
same  latitude,  and  you  know  when  a  man  has  reached 
the  point  of  pulling  down  the  scales  at  one  hundred 
and  eighty  pounds  he  is  in  a  frame  of  mind  to  appre- 
ciate such  advantages. 

"  Bring  my  sweet  wife  over  to  me,  Tony,  well  and 
strong,  for  there  is  much  in  this  curious  land  for  her 
bright  eyes  to  see,  and  all  the  time  I  can  possibly  spare 
from  my  business  shall  be  devoted  to  winning  her 
over  to  a  genuine  liking  for  the  spot  which,  in  all  prob- 
ability, will  be  our  home  for  a  good  many  years  to 
come.  She  will  never  know  what  it  cost  me  to  come 


26  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

away  without  the  supreme  satisfaction  of  believing  that 
she  finally  acquiesced  in  the  wisdom  as  well  as  the 
necessity  for  this  move  on  my  part. 

"  Salt  Lake  City  is  in  itself  quite  imposing,  laid  off 
with  geometrical  precision  and  yet  not  sacrificing  its 
natural  beauties.  Each  street  is  one  hundred  and 
thirty-two  feet  wide,  including  the  sidewalks,  which  are 
twenty  feet  in  width.  The  majority  of  the  streets  are 
bordered  with  shade  trees  and  running  brooks,  the 
foliage  of  the  former  concealing  the  houses  so  com- 
pletely at  this  season  of  the  year  that  the  city  has  the 
appearance  of  an  immense  grove. 

"  Mormon  architecture  is  characterized  rather  by  solid- 
ity than  elegance,  and  the  stamp  of  Brigham  Young's 
individuality  is  everywhere  perceptible.  One  involun- 
tarily pays  tribute  of  respect  to  the  mind  which  could 
so  dominate  all  other  minds  that  fell  within  the  scope 
of  its  magic  influence. 

"  One  of  the  most  curious  objects  of  interest  to  me 
here  is  the  'Tithing  Store.'  It  is  the  custom  of  the 
Mormons  to  pay  their  tithes  and  donations  to  the 
church  in  kind.  The  farmer  brings  the  products  of  his 
farm,  the  herder  of  the  increase  of  his  flocks,  the  mer- 
chant of  his  merchandise  and  so  on  ad  infinitum,  a 
truly  patriarchal  system,  which,  indeed,  is  the  system 
upon  which  the  entire  social  fabric  rests,  with  a  strong 
under-pinning  of  Biblical  authority ;  but  the  result  (of 
the  tithing  I  mean,  not  of  Mormonism)  is  a  complicated 


TWO  LETTERS  OF  OXE  DATE.  27 

assortment  of  produce,  grain,  vegetables,  poultry,  cattle 
and  merchandise,  which  strikes  one  fresh  from  the 
speculative  region  of  Wall  street  as  ponderously  incon- 
venient, viewed  as  change. 

"  I  am  told  that  the  material  thus  accumulated  is 
paid  out  to  the  men  who  work  on  the  Temples,  the 
public  lands,  clerks  and  others ;  goes  toward  the  sup- 
port of  the  poor,  is  doled  out  to  friendly  Indians,  and, 
in  short,  answers  every  purpose  of  exchange  as 
thoroughly  well  as  a  more  portable  currency. 

"  During  the  summer  season  two  trains  run  daily  to 
Black  Rock  and  Garfield  Landing,  and  you,  who  are 
familiar  with  my  amphibious  nature,  can  imagine  the 
delight  I  experience  in  taking  the  late  train,  after  busi- 
ness hours,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  enjoying  a  bath  in 
the  buoyant  waters  of  the  lake.  The  least  possible 
effort  is  necessary  to  keep  one's  equilibrium,  and  sink- 
ing is  out  of  the  question.  In  the  long  sunny  days  of 
mid-summer  the  water  becomes  deliciously  warm,  much 
more  so  than  ocean  water. 

"  I  am  more  than  ever  convinced  that  Ford,  Farnham 
&  Co.  did  a  wise  thing  in  establishing  this  branch  just 
at  this  time.  It  was  a  necessity  of  the  trade  here,  and 
consequently  is  meeting  with  more  immediate  success 
than  I  had  dared  hope  for.  The  men  with  whom  my 
business  brings  me  in  contact  are,  as  a  rule,  shrewd, 
clear-headed,  upright  and  practical,  with  very  decided 
views  on  the  subject  of  money  making  and  money 


28  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

keeping.  I  have  no  quarrel  with  them  on  that  score. 
So  far  Utah  contains  no  social  life  for  me.  I  am  little 
better  than  a  machine  without  Anna  and  you,  my  two 
good  angels. 

.  "  Do  write  to  me  that  she  is  brave  and  cheerful  and 
reconciled.  She  is  so  thoroughly  conscientious  that 
once  she  yields  a  point  it  is  never  raked  up  for  fresh 
discussion.  That  is  one  of  her  rare  attributes.  The 
sweet  and  lovable  ones  are  many,  but  you  know  the 
number  and  the  order  of  them  as  well  as  I  do.  I  have 
written  thus  fully  so  that  you  may  see  what  sort  of  life 
your  absentee  is  living  in  his  exile." 

On  the  evening  of  August  the  fifteenth  of  the  year 
1 88 — ,  Mr.  Anthony  Quinby,  sitting  at  a  writing  table 
under  the  drop-light  in  the  little  library  of  his  brother's 
Elizabeth  home,  wrote  to  that  brother  as  follows : 

"  My  dear  John — I  have  the  library  all  to  myself  to- 
night and  am  taking  dismal  comfort  in  rilling  it  with 
tobacco  smoke  in  hopes  of  driving  away  a  few  of  the 
pestiferous  musquitoes  that  make  life  in  New  Jersey  a 
burden  at  this  time  of  the  year.  They  are  laying  siege 
to  every  vulnerable  point  of  me  at  once,  and  if  I  were 
to  write  just  as  I  feel  I  am  afraid  this  would  be  a  sting- 
ing epistle.  We  are  having  infernally  hot  weather  here 
just  now,  which,  however,  distresses  me  more  on  Anna's 
account  than  on  my  own. 

"  Mrs.  Abbott  spends  most  of  her  time  with  us  lately, 
and  Anna  keeps  up  a  pretty  fair  show  of  cheerfulness. 


TWO  LETTERS  OF  OXE  DATE.  29 

We  miss  you  rather  more,  I  think,  than  when  you  first 
left.  Then  it  seemed  simply  like  one  of  the  short 
trips  you  so  often  took.  The  little  woman  to-day 
wreathed  your  photograph  that  hangs  over  the  parlor 
mantel  in  smilax,  remembering  what  I  had  forgotten, 
that  it  was  your  birth-day.  Thirty-five  !  What  an 
ancient  of  years  you  are  getting  to  be  ! 

"  There  is  literally  nothing  of  interest  to  write  you 
about.  The  'haps'  of  Elizabeth  are  born  moldy. 
The  only  ripple  on  the  stagnant  pool  that  floats  society 
here  is  the  return  of  Dr.  Ambrose's  daughter,  in  con- 
sequence of  which  the  clever  old  fellow  seems  to  have 
undergone  a  spiritual  rejuvenescence.  It  is  pathetic 
to  witness  his  happiness  at  having  her  back.  He  says 
he  has  just  begun  to  live,  and  wonders  how  he  existed 
so  long  'without  Effie.'  To  a  stranger,  Miss  Ambrose 
seems  scarcely  to  warrant  such  ecstasy  of  devotion, 
even  in  a  doting  old  man's  breast,  but  perhaps  you  will 
remember  her  better  and  more  favorably  than  I  do, 
for,  if  I  do  not  mistake,  in  the  callow  days  of  your 
school  vacations  she  received  a  large  proportion  of 
your  attentions.  But  all  that  was  before  you  had  seen 
Anna.  She  is  called  '  very  smart '  by  the  boys, 
who  are  afraid  of  her,  and  '  eccentric '  by  the  older 
men,  to  whom  her  physical  angularity  does  not  recom- 
mend her.  She  and  Anna  have  picked  up  the  old  girl 
friendship  and  knotted  it  together  with  that  easy  skill 
women  have  for  mending  things  that  have  been  broken 


30  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

a  long  time.  I  think  the  episode  of  her  return  has 
done  your  wife  good.  If  you  remember  she  left  here 
at  the  time  of  her  mother's  death  to  live  with  a  maiden 
aunt.  Maiden  aunt  is  gone  too,  now,  leaving  Miss 
Ambrose  quite  an  heiress  in  her  own  right.  She  is 
here  about  as  much  as  Mrs.  Abbott  is,  which  is  to  say 
pretty  much  all  the  time.  Dr.  Ambrose  hovers  over 
them  both  (our  Anna  and  his  Effie,  I  mean,  not  Mrs. 
Abbott)  in  the  most  fatherly  fashion. 

"  Veritably  I  ought  to  have  been  a  woman,  as  you 
half-contemptuously  say  sometimes.  I  have  sat  about 
the  house  in  my  helpless  worthlessness  until  there's  no 
grist  left  in  my  mental  mill  but  the  shrunken  grains 
of  village  gossip. 

"As  for  commercial  gossip  and  Wall  street  ondits, 
vide  The  Commercial  Advertiser,  The  Tribune,  and  The 
Post,  all  of  which  I  mail  you  with  this." 

An  hour  later,  as  Anthony,  just  returned  from  drop- 
ping this  letter  into  the  nearest  mail-box,  was  hanging 
his  hat  on  the  rack  in  the  hall,  Mrs.  Abbott  suddenly 
appeared  before  him  with  a  face  full  of  importance. 
"  Telegraph  to  John,  please,  that  his  son  Abbott 
Quinby  is  a  remarkably  fine  child,  and  that  Anna  is 
quite  well,"  she  said  peremptorily,  and  vanished. 

"  Bless  my  soul ! "  said  Anthony,  standing  still,  with 
his  arm  upraised,  quite  as  if  nothing  of  the  sort  had 
ever  been  contemplated.  Then  he  put  his  hat  slowly 
on,  and  went  out  into  the  night  again,  pondering  over 


TWO  LETTERS  OF  ONE  DA  TE.  31 

the  ever  old,  ever-new  mystery  of  life,  and  breathing  a 
prayer  that  all  might  be  well  for  this  last  comer  into  a 
world  where  things  had  such  a  faculty  for  getting 
themselves  into  a  snarl.  "  Perhaps,"  he  said  to  him- 
self a  little  later,  as  he  softly  tip-toed  through  the  hall 
to  reach  his  bedroom  noiselessly,  "  if  the  time  ever 
comes  when  Anna  needs  a  comforter — an  earthly  one 
I  mean — ''she  may  find  it  in  the  little  chap  who  has  just 
got  here." 
Who  knows! 


CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  DOCTOR'S  PERPLEXITIES. 

DR.  AMBROSE  walked  home  that  night  from  the 
Quinbys'  in  a  sagely  reflective  mood.  He  had  time 
to  indulge  in  such,  now  that  he  was  relieved  from  all 
anxiety  concerning  "  John's  wife,"  which  was  the  form 
in  which  he  always  thought  of  Mrs.  Quinby,  who  had 
been  entrusted  to  his  guardianship  by  her  husband 
with  great  impfessiveness. 

"  She  has  fretted  so,"  he  had  said,  in  self-excuse  to 
himself  for  worrying,  "  over  this  idiotic  move  of  John'sto 
Utah,  that  I  did  not  know  what  the  consequences  might 
be."  But  John's  wife  was  all  right  now,  and  the  doctor 
walked  slowly  homeward  through  the  sleeping  town 
with  no  harsher  sound  to  disturb  his  sage  reflections  than 
the  fall  of  his  own  heavy  tread  upon  the  deserted  side- 
walks, or  the  quicker  and  more  imperious  footsteps  of 
some  blue-coated  policeman,  who  watched  while  honest 
men  slept.  Dr.  Ambrose  was  an  old-fashioned  man, 
with  an  assortment  of  old-fashioned  notions,  and  one 
of  his  favorite  topics  of  thought,  as  well  as  of  conver- 
sation, was  woman  and  her  destiny.  Not  a  strikingly 


THE  DOCTOR'S  PERPLEXITIES.  33 

original  topic,  one  must  admit,  but  one  with  which,  in 
his  capacity  as  physician,  the  doctor  came  into  close 
and  frequent  contact.  Having  forewarned  you  that 
he  was  old-fashioned,  you  will  not  expect  to  find  him 
entertaining  any  but  the  most  orthodox  views  on  this 
subject.  Woman's  prime  mission  in  life,  he  held,  was 
to  marry  and  to  rear  children.  And  she  who  shirked 
these  duties  was  little  short  of  reprehensible. 

John  Quinby's  wife,  as  he  had  just  left  her,  white, 
languid,  quiescent,  with  her  arms  folded  rapturously 
about  the  small  atom  of  humanity  that  was  so  uncon- 
scious of  its  own  mission  of  comforter,  such  a  tiny 
thing  to  fill  a  woman's  entire  horizon  with  rosy  light ; 
with  the  mother-love  shining  in  eyes  that  had  just  been 
filled  with  pain  and  terror,  was  to  hirri'a  consecrated 
human  being.  An  almost  perceptible  halo  had  seemed 
to  encircle  Anna's  brow  when  the  divine  miracle  of  life 
had  been  wrought  out  once  more  through  her  agency. 
John  Quinby's  wife  was  no  longer  the  peevish  patient 
over  whom  he  kept  stern  watch  and  ward  ;  she  was  a 
mother,  consecrated  to  the  sweetest  duties  that  can 
come  into  any  woman's  life,  duties  which,  under- 
stood and  faithfully  performed,  would  enlarge  her 
heart  and  brain,  elevate  her  entire  nature  and  leave  no 
margin  for  unhealthy  repinings  touching  certain  things 
that  had  not  gone  according  to  her  wishes  of  late.  He 
was  glad  to  see  Anna  welcome  her  boy  as  a  blessing, 
rather  than  as  a  burden  to  be  borne  with  what  dignity 


34  i'UE  BAR-SINISTER. 

she  could  assume.  There  was  too  much  of  the  latter 
feeling  observable  among  women  of  the  present  day. 
Too  much  downright  rebellion  against  the  decrees  of 
Heaven  in  this  respect.  Yes,  Anna  was  fulfilling  her 
mission  in  life.  How  would  it  be  with  his  own  girl? 
With  his  Effie,  who  was  at  once  a  puzzle  and  a  delight 
to  him?  He  was  afraid  Effie  had  picked  up  some 
queer  notions  from  that  Boston  aunt  of  hers.  Queer 
to  him  at  least.  "  Advanced  notions,"  he  supposed 
they  would  be  called  by  people  who  never  liked  to  call 
a  spade  "  a  spade."  There  was  no  denying  that  Effie 
was  not  just  what  he  had  expected  to  find  her,  though 
it  was  hard  to  find  any  specific  fault  with  her.  She 
was  gentle  and  good  and  neat,  and  had  quite  a  turn  for 
housekeeping,  and  seemed  to  have  perfect  control  of 
what  had  once  promised  to  be  rather  an  imperious 
temper;  and  she  was  loving  enough  to  him,  consider- 
ing their  separation  of  ten  years,  but  still  there  was 
something  lacking!  She  didn't  seem  to  have  the  aver- 
age girl's  appetite  for  beaux  and  admiration  ;  in  fact, 
seemed  rather  nettled  than  otherwise  at  the  persistent 
attention  of  some  two  or  three  "  fellows  "  who  seemed 
a  little  harder  to  freeze  out  than  their  contemporaries. 
To  the  doctor  it  seemed  as  natural  for  young  people 
of  the  opposite  sexes  to  enjoy  each  other's  society,  and 
to  seek  it,  as  for  the  birds  to  mate  in  spring.  But  Dr. 
Ambrose,  at  best,  was  a  simple  minded  old  fossil.  A 
girl  who  turned  away  in  manifest  disapproval  of  beaux 


THE  DOCTOR'S  PERPLEXITIES.  35' 

was  a  complex  organism  to  him  which  it  was  necessary 
to  study  as  one  would  a  problem  in  trigonometry.  Dr. 
Ambrose  in  his  most  vigorous  mental  days  had  never 
been  partial  to  the  exact  sciences,  and  he  would  infin- 
itely have  preferred  not  to  take  up  the  study  of  his 
only  child  as  if  she  were  an  unknown  quantity,  which, 
indeed,  he  very  much  feared  she  was. 

Perhaps,  he  thought,  (always  ready  to  assume  him- 
self in  fault),  he  hadn't  done  the  right  thing  by  Effiein 
handing  her  over  so  trustingly  to  her  mother's  sister. 
But  his  wife  had  asked  it  of  him  when  she  was  dying,  and 
he,  as  a  busy  practitioner,  had  so  little  time  to  bestow 
on  the  lonely  child,  that  it  had  seemed  the  only  thing 
left  to  do.  And  Effie  had  been  very  happy  with  her 
aunt,  until  that  excellent  woman  suddenly  died  and 
the  girl  had  been  sent  back  upon  her  father's  hands, 
leaving  him  to  grope  his  way  into  an  understanding 
of  her,  but  ready  to  take  her  into  his  warm,  capacious 
heart  all  unexplained  as  she  was.  He  had  discovered 
in  the  first  week  of  her  return  that  she  was  not — well, 
not  quite  like  other  young  people.  "A  little  too 
intense,"  is  how  he  would  have  described  her,  if  he  had 
been  compelled  to  put  his  perplexities  into  words. 
Considering  intensity  a  sort  of  malady,  you  know,  sub- 
versive of  that  natural  joyousness  that  goes  with  all 
healthy  young  organisms,  he  had  fostered  her  intimacy 
with  John  Quinby's  wife  as  a  most  desirable  antidote. 

"  I'd  like  to  have  some  of  the  blue  rubbed  off  my 


36  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

girl,"  he  had  informed  Mrs.  Abbott  confidentially, "  and 
it  does  me  good  to  hear  Anna  begin  to  talk  John 
whenever  Effie  begins  to  talk  ethics." 

He  did  not  tell  Mrs.  Abbott  (he  was  too  carefully 
courteous  of  that  lady's  feelings)  that  her  Anna  pos- 
sessed just  the  element  of  commonplace  which  his 
Effie  lacked.  And  Mrs.  Quinby's  companionship  had 
seemed  thoroughly  acceptable  to  Miss  Ambrose.  She 
had  known  Anna  all  her  life  and  she  seemed  to  shrink 
with  a  most  unaccountable  distaste  from  the  form- 
ation of  any  new  ties.  "Quite  unnatural,  you  know! 
Altogether  queer !  "  the  doctor  had  said  in  his  despair 
at  her  obstinacy  on  this  point  and  her  failure  to  account 
for  it  satisfactorily.  It  distressed  him,  this  unrespon- 
sive attitude  she  had  assumed  toward  the  good  Eliza- 
bethans, who  had  flocked  to  welcome  her  home,  some 
for  her  "  dear  mother's  sake,"  some -for  "their  good 
doctor's  sake,"  and  some  avowedly  declaring  that  they 
considered  a  young  lady  "  reared  in  the  cultivated 
atmosphere  of  Boston,  as  quite  an  acquisition  to  poor 
little  Elizabeth." 

In  those  lonely  days  of  his,  during  his  daughter's 
Bos_ton  residence,  Dr.  Ambrose  used  to  console  himself 
with  the  building  of  air  castles  that  always  had  their 
foundations  in  Effie's  early  marriage,  She  was  to 
marry  some  fellow  who  was  to  love  her  very  much 
indeed,  and  be  just  as  good  to  her  as  her  merits 
demanded  (which  was  of  course  to  bespeak  super-ex- 


THE  DOCTOR'S  PERPLEXITIES.  37 

cellence  for  this  young  man),  and  they  were  all  to  live 
happily  together  in  the  old  house  where  Effie  had  been 
born  and  he  had  lived  all  his  married  life,  and  he  was 
to  begin  life  all  over  again  in  Effie's  boys  and  girls. 
This  vision  of  patriarchal  blessedness  did  not  present 
itself  as  a  remote  possibility  of  the  future.  It  was  sim- 
ply the  finale  to  this  time  of  lonely  probation  for  him 
and  active  preparation  for  her.  For  with  Dr.  Ambrose 
all  education  for  womankind  tended,  or  should  tend,  to 
prepare  her  for  the  inevitable  conclusions  of  wife-hood 
and  maternity.  As  Mrs.  Quinby  and  Effie  were  con- 
temporaneous, he  felt  in  a  sense  defrauded  that  his  vis- 
ion was  still  nothing  but  a  baseless  fabric,  while  John 
Quinby's  happiness  had  been  an  assured  fact  for  some 
years. 

"  She  freezes  the  fellows  out,  one  by  one  ;  hanged 
if  I  know  what  notion  she  has  got  in  her  head,"  said 
Dr.  Ambrose  this  night  in  a  sudden  culmination  of 
impatience  as  he  stepped  on  to  his  low  portico  with 
his  mind  still  running  on  Effie,  and  her  provoking  in- 
difference to  the  object  so  near  his  own  affectionate 
heart.  "  Maybe  Anna's  baby  will  fetch  her  round," 
he  said,  smiling  at  the  conceit  as  it  took  possession  of 
him  one  second,  but  was  forgotten  the  next,  in  surprise 
at  seeing  so  bright  a  light  still  streaming  through  the 
hall  and  from  the  open  parlor  door.  Then  he  softly 
tip-toed  over  the  fluffy  rugs  that  deadened  nis  foot-fall 
with  the  stealthy  habit  that  he  had  long  since  acquired 


38  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

by  coming  home  all  hours  of  the  night  and  respecting 
the  slumbers  of  his  household. 

He  glanced  into  the  parlor  on  his  way  to  the  hat- 
rack.  Effie  was  not  there.  He  hadn't  expected  she 
would  be.  She  always  sat  in  the  snug  little  back  par- 
lor behind  the  portieres.  She  seemed  to  fit  into  it  so 
prettily;  but,  since  she  had  filled  it  up  with  the  easels, 
and  brackets,  and  be-ribboned  wicker  chairs,  and  hand- 
embroidered  screens,  and  cabinets  full  of  rare  bits  of 
china,  and  big  vases  and  little  vases,  and  Japanese 
wonders  of  all  sorts,  he  had  felt  hulky  and  out  of  place 
in  it,  and  seldom  staid  there  long,  as  Effie  was  a  foe  to 
tobacco  in  any  shape  and  that  was  one  solace  he  could 
not  relinquish.  He  stopped  in  the  triangle  of  light 
made  by  the  looped  back  portieres  that  divided  the 
-two  parlors.  Yes,  there  she  was  sitting  by  the  little 
spider-legged  brass  table  with  its  lace-fringed  velvet 
cover,  the  bright  light  from  the  chandelier  over  her 
head  flooding  her  with  brightness.  Her  clear  cut  pro- 
file was  turned  toward  him.  Miss  Ambrose  was 
slightly  disappointing  to  people  whose  first  glimpse  of 
her  was  a  sidewise  one.  The  lines  about  her  chin  and 
the  corners  of  her  mouth  were  so  much  softer,  the  nose 
so  much  more  classic,  and  a  certain  droop  to  the  eye- 
brow so  much  more  graceful  than  in  a  fuller  front  view. 
She  had  been  reading,  but  at  the  moment  of  her  father's 
invasion  she  sat  with  the  open  book  face  downward  in 
her  lap  and  her  folded  hands  rested  upon  its  lids.  How 


THE  DOCTOR'S  PERPLEXITIES.  39 

pretty  she  looked  in  the  old  man's  eyes  !  She  had  not 
yet  lost  the  charm  of  novelty  for  her  father.  In  fact, 
physically  as  well  as  mentally,  she  was  an  altogether 
different  being  from  the  plump  girl  with  a  voracious 
appetite  and  two  long  plaits  down  her  back  with  knots 
of  red  ribbon  tied  on  the  fluffy  ends,  that  he  had  de- 
posited, frightened  and  sobbing,  in  Miss  Priscilla  Water- 
man's arms  a  decade  Before.  This  thin,  delicate  feat- 
ured young  lady — chiefly  noticeable  for  the  prim  erect- 
ness  of  her  carriage  and  the  serious  gravity  of  her  large 
gray  eyes  ;  who  always  spoke  in  the  measured  tones  and 
the  soft,  cultured  voice  of  a  woman  who  had  out-grown 
every  impulse  to  hurry  her  views  into  notice — was  ex- 
tremely attractive,  but  a  trifle  inaccessible  even  to  him 
who  yearned  so  for  a  fuller  return  of  the  love  he  had 
waited  for  a  long,  long  time.  To  the  simple  mind  of 
the  doctor  seriousness  was  but  one  phase  of  sorrow. 
Why  should  his  girl,  who,  since  the  far-away  shock  of 
a  mother's  death,  had  never  known  a  shadow  of  trouble 
or  care,  take  life  with  such  tremendous  gravity  ?  He 
was  perpetually  tempted  to  ask  her  what  was  the  mat- 
ter, but  was  deterred  by  fear  of  making  the  puzzle  still 
more  puzzling.  In  reality,  Miss  Ambrose  had  a  most 
embarrassing  way  of  looking  at  one,  if  one  did  but  say 
the  morning  was  a  fine  one,  quite  as  if  she  expected 
one  to  follow  up  that  truism  with  a  scientific  exposi- 
tion of  the  barometric  conditions  that  had  produced 
the  fineness  in  question ;  and  one  was  constantly  im- 


40  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

pressed  with  the  futility  of  one's  efforts  to  entertain  or 
enlighten  so  thoroughly  self-contained  a 'young  woman. 
Not  that  the  doctor's  daughter  was  ever  consciously 
rude  or  lacking  in  gentle  courtesy.  She  was  simply 
not  interested  in  any  thing  that  was  going  on  about  her, 
and  was  too  thoroughly  indifferent  to  what  people 
thought  or  said  of  her  to  make  an  effort  to  conceal  it. 

"Well,  my  pet!" 

She  started  convulsively  and  her  book  slipped  from 
her  relaxed  clasp  to  the  floor.  She  must  have  been 
very  far  away  in  the  spirit  for  her  father's  familiar  voice 
and  the  familiar  words  to  startle  her  so. 

"Caught  you  napping,  hey  !  you  ought  to  have  been 
in  bed  two  hours  ago.  Suppose  you  couldn't  sleep, 
though,  until  you  had  heard  the  news." 

The  doctor  stooped  with  creaking  knee-joints  to  re- 
cover the  fallen  book,  and  laid  it  on  the  table  behind 
his  daughter,  as  he  bent  over  and  kissed  her  heartily. 

"  What  news  ?"  she  asked,  in  that  slow,  unhurried 
way  of  hers,  rewarding  his  warm  caress  with  a  shy 
fleeting  smile.  "  No,  I  wasn't  asleep,  I  was  startled, 
you  came  in  so  noiselessly.  I  had  just  finished  reading 
about  Margaret  Fuller,  and  was  thinking,  that  was  all. 
You  have  been  with  Anna  ?  " 

"Yes.  And  she  sends  word  you  must  come  over 
very  early  in  the  morning  to  see  Mr.  Abbott  Quinby." 

"  Mr.  Abbott  Quinby !  oh  yes,  but  I  think  I 
will  wait  awhile.  Babies  are  only  interesting  to  their 


THE  DOCTOR'S  PERPLEXITIES.  41 

very  nearest  relatives  at  this  early  stage  of  their  devel- 
opment. I  am  afraid  I  should  find  it  very  hard  to 
say  any  thing  pleasant  about  it  to  Anna,  poor  child, 
and  I  shouldn't  care  to  say  unpleasant  truths  to 
her." 

"Why  I  thought  you  liked  John's  wife?  "  says  the 
doctor  with  clumsy  irrelevance. 

"So  I  do,  immensely!"  Effie's  serious  eyes  were 
turned  on  him  questioningly.  The  doctor  had  seated 
himself  in  one  of  the  most  substantial  chairs  in  the 
room  and  sat  curling  the  long  ends  of  his  iron  gray 
mustache  abstractedly  while  he  pondered  his  daugh- 
ter's cold  impassiveness  to  her  friend's  suffering  and 
triumph  ! 

Miss  Ambrose's  eyes  saved  her  lips  an  immense 
amount  of  exertion.  On  the  present  occasion  they 
impelled  her  father  to  apologize  for  his  somewhat  tart 
tones  of  a  moment  before. 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  pet,  but  you  are  so  deucedly  un- 
demonstrative. Anna  thinks  so  much  of  you  that  I 
really  would  like  to  see  you  warm  up  a  little  more  to 

0 

her  baby.  I  thought  all  women  were  by  all  babies,  as 
all  girls  are  by  all  dolls — you  know,  took  to  them 
naturally." 

"  I  can't  recall  that  I  ever  did  take  to  dolls,  as  you 
express  it.  Papa,  can  you  ?  I  remember  I  had  quite 
a  lot  in  my  trunk  when  I  went  to  Boston,  but  Aunt 
Priscilla  had  so  many  more  interesting  things  and  was 


42  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

so  kind  in  entertaining  me  with  them  that  I  ended  by 
giving  all  my  dolls  away." 

"What  were  Priscilla's  more  interesting  things?" 
the  doctor  asked,  always  eager  for  any  information  that 
would  throw  light  on  the  mental  processes  that  had 
evolved  this  finished  young  lady  out  of  his  very  crude 
darling. 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  know  ;  such  a  variety  of  things — micro- 
scopes and  aquariums  and  geometrical  puzzles,  and 
mission-schools  and " 

"  Mission  schools  !  Was  that  among  your  amuse- 
ments? " 

The  doctor  indulged  in  so  hearty  a  laugh  at  Miss 
Priscilla's  expense  that  his  daughter's  pale  face  grew 
decidedly  pink  with  resentment,  and  she  said  a  little 
less  slowly  than  usual, 

"  You  knew  Aunt  Priscilla  was  not  a  frivolous  per- 
son when  you  put  me  with  her,  didn't  you,  papa?" 

"  I  shouldn't  have  been  likely  to  put  you  with  her 
if  she  had  been,"  he  said,  wiping  away  the  tears  that 
had  filled  his  eyes  to  overflowing  ;  "  but,  Jerusalem 
the  golden  !  "  He  was  off  again,  brutally  merry  at  the 
idea  of  any  fun  being  extracted  from  a  mission-school. 

If  Miss  Ambrose  had  not  been  a  foe  to  all  emotion 
that  did  not  have  its  foundation  in  some  great  under- 
lying principle  of  right  or  wrong,  she  would  have  grown 
actively  angry  at  this  juncture,  but  her  Aunt  Pris- 
cilla's philosophic  teachings  were  not  so  far  back  in 


THE  DOCTOR'S  PERPLEXITIES.  43 

the  past  that  she  could  forget  herself  and  show  her 
temper.  She  simply  folded  her  hands  and  looked  a 
little  graver  than  usual. 

Dr.  Ambrose,  reasoning  from  a  very  narrow  concep- 
tion of  the  female  character,  had  fallen  into  a  very 
grave  error  concerning  this  daughter  of  his.  Her  cold 
imperturbability  under  the  raillery  which  was  pur- 
posely exaggerated  in  order  to  pique  her  into  some 
warmth  of  defense,  was  mistaken  for  an  indication  that 
no  such  warmth  existed.  "  She  has  had  all  feeling 
cultured  out  of  her,"  was  his  hasty  and  disappointed 
conclusion.  On  the  contrary,  it  had  been  concentrated 
and  intensified  until  it  filled  her  heart  with  a  concrete 
of  emotions  that  nothing  but  a  volcanic  shock  would 
convert  into  a  stream  of  molten  lava,  destructive  in  its 
escape,  perilous  in  its  onward  sweep. 

There  was  that  within  this  quiet-seeming  girl  that 
only  awaited  the  touch  of  some  tremendous  inspira- 
tion to  make  her  frail  form  quiver  with  sensibility. 
Her  nature  was  like  a  skiff  in  stormy  weather — a  craft 
badly  in  need  of  a  strong  helmsman. 

"  I  was  very  happy  with  Aunt  Priscilla,"  she  said 
presently,  "  and  she  was  very,  very  good  to  me.  She 
was  a  grand  woman,  father.  She  tried  very  hard  to 
gird  up  my  loins  for  the  battle." 

"What  battle?"  Dr.  Ambrose  asked,  a  trifle  im- 
patiently, for,  to  his  seeing,  there  was  no  call  for  Effic 
to  do  any  thing  but  to  enjoy  herself  like  other  girls  and 


44  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

be  happy  in  the  very  placid  sphere  of  life  that  it  had 
pleased  God  to  place  her.  He  did  not  like  to  hear  her 
talk  in  this  unsheltered  fashion. 

"  The  battle  with  the  powers  of  evil,  which,  sooner 
or  later,  I  suppose,  we  are  all  called  upon  to  engage 
in,"  Effie  answers  with  undue  solemnity. 

"  Tut,  child  !  You're  sleepy.  You're  growing  owl- 
ish. Nearly  twelve  o'clock.  Kiss  me  and  go  to  bed." 

Effie  obeyed  him  to  the  extent  of  rising  immediately, 
and  as  she  stood  before  him,  almost  tall  enough  to  look 
straight  into  his  tender  eyes  and  rugged  face,  she  put 
her  little  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  said  in  that  sur- 
charged voice  of  hers  that  had  so  much  wasted  tragedy 
in  it,  and  yet  with  affectionate  entreaty, 

"  Father,  if  you  love  me  any  better,  or  any  differently 
from  what  you  did  when  I  was  little  better  than  a  kit- 
ten scampering  about  the  house  for  your  amusement, 
don't  ever  treat  me  so  contemptuously  again.  I  don't 
like  it.  Some  men  think  they  have  achieved  a  triumph 
of  manliness  when  they  laugh  at  instead  of  frowning 
down  any  thing  a  woman  says  or  does  that  is  not  in 
strict  accordance  with  all  their  preconceived  notions  ; 
but  I  don't  want  to  class  my  dear,  dear  father  with  the 
men  who  can  not  afford  to  reason  with  women.  Good- 
night. I  foresee  that  we  are  going  to  differ  about  a 
great  many  things,  but  we  can  keep  on  loving  each 
other  straight  through  it  all,  can't  we,  papa,  dear?" 

"  Straight  through  all  and  all,  my  darling,"  says  Dr. 


THE  DOCTOR 'S  PERPLEXITIES.  45 

Ambrose,  folding  his  great  arms  about  the  girl's  slim 
waist  and  shoulders,  and  kissing  her  with  pardoning 
tenderness. 

Then  she  went  away  from  him  leaving  him  more  and 
more  perplexed  about  her.  Conscious,  more  than 
ever,  that  the  element  of  placid  comfort  was  not  likely 
to  enter  largely  into  his  daily  companionship  with  his 
daughter. 

"  It's  going  to  be  very  like  living  in  the  close  neigh- 
borhood of  Mount  Vesuvius,"  he  sighed,  taking  his 
own  bedroom  candle  from  the  hall  table,  "  with  no 
data  by  which  to  prognosticate  eruptions.  She's  a  sweet 

child  beneath  it  all.  It  all  comes  of  that  con " 

even  in  the  privacy  of  his  own  room,  Dr.  Ambrose  hes- 
itated over  completing  an  entirely  condemnatory  sen- 
tence upon  Miss  Priscilla  Waterman's  method  of  rear- 
ing girls. 


CHAPTER   V. 

THE   DAY   OF  DEPARTURE. 

'  *  T  WISH  it  didn't  all  look  so  pretty,  you  know,  in  its 
X  bright  autumn  dress  !  I'd  rather  have  it  looking 
uglier  than  ugly.  Oh !  Anthony,  will  any  spot  ever  be 
to  me  what  this  one  has  been  ?  Just  look  at  my  pretty 
tulip  bed!  It  is  dazzling  !" 

Mrs.  Quinby  did  not  want  an  answer,  for  which  An- 
thony was  thankful  in  the  extreme.  She  walked  away 
from  him,  where  he  was  stooping,  paste-brush  in  hand, 
sticking  labels  on  the  numberless  trunks  and  boxes 
that  were  piled  in  the  front  portico  of  the  Quinbys' 
house,  even  then  awaiting  the  city  express  to  take 
them  down  to  the  depot.  Anna's  plaintive  little  wails 
were  quite  natural,  but  they  were  more  than  thrice- 
told  tales  now,  and  since  the  thing  had  become  inevi- 
table, he  discouraged  all  discussion  of  the  "  cons  "  of 
the  case,  so  far  as  was  possible.  He  heard  her  go  out 
into  the  little  garden  that  was  ablaze  with  tulips  and 
scarlet  geraniums  and  brilliant  foliage  plants,  which 
she  gathered  with  reckless  prof-usion,  filling  her  hands 
and  straw  hat  with  the  costly  beauties  of  which  she 
was  generally  quite  niggardly. 


THE  DA  Y  OF  DEPARTURE.  4'f 

"  Who  will  care  to-morrow  how  the  garden  looks  ?  " 
she  said,  in  extenuation  of  her  recklessness  as  she  came 
back  to  Anthony  and  the  luggage.  "  Look,  Tony,  the 
tulips  are  bigger  and  brighter  than  ever  before.  I'll 
crowd  the  tea-table  with  the  beauties.  Effie  and  the 
doctor  are  coming  to  take  away  the  dismalness  of  this 
last  meal  for  us.  The  dear  old  place  seems  to  be  laugh- 
ing instead  of  sorrowing  because  we  are  going.  Oh  ! 
Anthony,  it  is  well  John  is  at  the  other  end,  or  my 
heart  would  break  at  loosing  its  hold  of  this  one.  I 
have  to  keep  on  saying  over  and  over  to  myself,  'John 
is  there.  John  wants  me.  John  is  waiting.  John 
wants  baby  and  me.'  ' 

Two  big  tears  splashed  down  Mrs.  Quinby's  cheeks, 
and  fell  in  the  gay  tulips  in  her  hands.  A  little  chok- 
ing sob  reached  Anthony's  ears,  and  made  the  hand 
that  held  the  paste-brush  tremble  a  little.  A  very  big 
and  sprawling  "  Q"  on  the  end  of  a  brand  new  trunk 
was  the  result. 

"  Don't  let  that  one  get  lost,  Tony,  whatever  hap- 
pens. All  baby's  flannels  are  in  it,  and  what  would  be- 
come of  us  if  they  were  lost  ?  "  says  Mrs.  Quinby,  anx- 
iously, into  whose  consciousness  it  had  never  yet  pene- 
trated that  outside  New  York  and  its  environs  the  re- 
quirements of  a  civilized  life  could  be  procured. 

"  We  don't  propose  to  lose  any  of  them,"  said  An- 
thony, rising  from  his  stooping  posture  and  with  paint- 
brush in  hand  reviewing  the  mountain  of  luggage  be- 


48  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

fore  him  in  the  anxious  desire  to  impress  the  individual 
features  of  each  separate  article  upon  his  bewildered 
memory  ;  "but  if  such  a  calamity  should  befall,"  smil- 
ing re-assurance  into  Anna's  face,  "  I  don't  imagine 
young  Quinby  will  have  to  go  flannel-less  all  the  rest 
of  his  days.  I  am  afraid  that  John's  efforts  to  convince 
you  that  you  are  going  into  a  great  center  of  civiliza- 
tion, rather  than  a  howling  wilderness,  have  all  been 
thrown  away  on  you." 

"  I  am  not  prepared  to  find  one  good  or  admirable 
thing  there,"  Mrs.  Quinby  says,  very  positively.  "  John 
has  chosen  to  go  there  and  I  am  compelled  to  do  so." 
Then  suddenly  seating  herself  on  one  of  the  ridgy 
trunks,  she  asks  abruptly  : 

"Tony  !  do  you  believe  in  your  heart  that  we  will  all, 
you  and  John  and  baby  and  I,  ever  be  so  happy  out 
yonder  as  we  could  have  been  here  ?  " 

"Why  what  a  creature  it  is  to  reason  in  a  circle  !  " 
Anthony  answers  vaguely.  "  I  had  come  to  regard 
John's  going  ahead  of  you  as  quite  a  bit  of  strategy. 
I  thought  your  soul  panted  for  Utah  as  the  heart  pant- 
eth  for  the  water-brooks.  Let  me  see !  one,  two 
Saratogas,  regular  dromedaries  for  carrying  capacity  as 
well  as  general  humpiness.  One  black,  flat-topped 
trunk,  one  yellow  ditto.  Two  canvas-covered  of  hon- 
est old  sole-leather,  covers  dingy  enough  to  suggest 
several  trips  around  the  world  ;  very  mucn  be-labeled, 
one  marked  '  A.  A.,'  the  other,  bold  '  Q.'  I'll  venture 


THE  DA  Y  OF  DEPARTURE.  49 

to  say  those  trunks  went  with  you  and  John  on  your 
bridal  trip." 

"  They  did,"  said  Mrs.  Quinby,  smiling  down  on  the 
dingy  canvas  covers,  "  and  such  a  trip  as  it  was !  " 

"  You  took  in  the  Falls  of  course.  And  had  your 
pictures  taken  there?" 

"Yes,  oh  yes,  of  course,  and  I  held  on  to  John's 
legs  while  he  reached  far  over  a  terrible  ledge  to  get 
me  a  piece  of  golden-rod." 

"  Of  course  you  have  it  put  away  somewhere  pressed." 

"  Of  course !  You  know  it's  not  every  man  would 
have  done  such  a  thing,  Anthony,  especially  for  his 
wife.  Men  are  ready  enough  to  risk  their  necks  or 
heads  for  girls  before  they  are  sure  of  them,  but  they 
do  grow  so  masterful  afterward." 

"True!"  says  Mr.  Quinby,  abstractedly,  returning 
to  his  labels,  while  Mrs.  Quinby  launched  into  a  fuller 
description  of  the  bridal  trip,  memories  of  which  had 
been  conjured  up  by  the  old  trunks.  Not  that  he  did 
not  know  it  all  by  rote,  but  he  was  satisfied  to  have 
Anna  talk  on  endlessly  about  any  thing  but  the  ethics 
of  their  hegira. 

He  had  done  all  he  could  to  dissuade  John  from  tak- 
ing this  step  when  the  subject  was  first  broached,  but 
since  it  had  become  inevitable  he  had  equally  discour- 
aged all  discussion  of  it,  with  that  manly  directness 
that  entered  into  all  his  sayings  and  doings.  His 
silent  pity  was  poured  out  for  John's  wife  abundantly. 


50  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

He  pitied  her  for  the  wrench  it  gave  her  tender  heart 
to  sever  all  the  old  home  ties  ;  and  he  pitied  her  for 
what  he  knew  she  would  be  called  on  to  endure  in  the 
strange  atmosphere  of  her  new  home.  He  pitied  her 
for  possessing  in  such  excess  the  very  sensibilities  that 
made  her  now  so  thoroughly  sweet  and  lovable.  As 
for  himself,  this  move  involved  no  special  hardship. 
There  were  no  ties  to  sunder.  John,  John's  wife  and 
John's  boy  were  the  trinity  of  his  acceptance.  Wherever 
they  were,  all  that  he  could  ever  know  of  home  life  and 
home  happiness  must  be  found.  So  he  could  very  well 
afford  to  be  placid  even  in  presence  of  the  chaos  that  had 
been  evolved  out  of  order  in  the  tumult  of  preparation 
for  their  journey.  He  felt  culpable  at  not  bearing  a 
larger  share  of  the  suffering  involved  in  this  move. 
He  would  gladly  have  borne  it  all  if  possible. 

Mrs.  Abbott  joined  them  presently,  carrying  the 
baby  on  one  arm,  with  the  skill  of  a  veteran  in  service, 
while  with  her  disengaged  hand  she  dragged  after  her 
a  light  rocker,  which  she  located  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  luggage  and  seated  herself  in  it  with  her  precious 
burden  of  pink  flesh  and  manifold  draperies.  Her  eyes 
were  bright  and  dry.  If  she  had  any  tears  to  shed 
she  did  not  propose  to  bedew  the  baby's  new  traveling 
hood  and  cloak  with  them.  Mrs.  Abbott  was  a 
thoroughly  sensible  woman.  She  held  to  the  time- 
honored  patriarchal  notion  that  the  husband  is  the 
judicial  head.  She  would  rather  not  give  Anna 


THE  DA  Y  OF  DEPARTURE.  5  r 

up  so  completely,  but  she  meant  when  she  got  the 
other  children  all  settled  off,  to  divide  her  time  equally 
among  them.  Salt  Lake  City  was  not  so  far  off  but 
she  could  go  there  in  an  emergency.  She  never  dis- 
tinctly formulated  any  possible  emergency,  but  she 
held,  in  common  with  the  less  sensible  of  her  sex,  that 
Utah  was  a  land  of  every  sort  of  possibilities  in  the 
way  of  emergencies. 

"  It  will  be  a  mercy*  Anna,"  she  said,  glancing 
cautiously  back  over  her  shoulder  toward  the  interior 
of  the  house  which  they  had  all  shunned  in  these  last 
moments,  it  was  so  dreadfully  suggestive  of  a  wreck  in 
its  dismantled  condition,  "  if  that  creature  does  not 
break  her  own  head  and  this  precious  baby's  too." 
Mrs.  Abbott  passed  a  caressing  hand  over  the  round 
head  that  rested  on  her  arm  as  if  to  assure  herself  it 
had  not  already  sustained  some  irreparable  injury. 
"  What  do  you  suppose  I  found  her  doing?  Sitting 
in  one  chair  with  her  feet  on  the  round  of  another, 
the  baby  across  her  lap,  while  she  plaited  that  long 
yellow  hair  of  hers !  Do  look  well  after  her,  Tony." 

Mrs.  Quinby  gave  a  little  horrified  shriek  and  fell 
on  her  knees  by  baby's  long  skirts,  cautiously  feeling 
her  way  up  to  the  soft  pink  toes  that  were  a  perpet- 
ual delight  to  her.  Evidently  the  baby  was  in  "  good 
condition,"  as  we  say  of  express  packages.  Anthony 
added  one  English  nurse-maid  to  the  mental  list  of  his 
responsibilities  for  the  next  many  days  to  come.  And 


52  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

then  they  all  fell  into  wordlessness,  staring  about  them 
like  people  who  have  said  all  they  had  to  say  to  each 
other  on  every  conceivable  topic  for  some  time  to  come. 
There  was  an  under-current  of  emotion  in  each  one  of 
their  hearts  that  made  "  talk  "  difficult  and  desultory. 

"  There's  the  doctor  and  Effie !  "  Mrs.  Abbott  says  in 
tones  of  positive  relief.  The  sound  of  her  lazy  rocking 
had  been  painfully  audible  for  some  seconds.  "And 
how  handsome  Effie  is  looking.  She  has  quite  a  color 
for  her,"  all  this,  in  the  short  space  of  time  it  takes  Dr. 
Ambrose  and  his  daughter  to  walk  across  the  narrow 
strip  of  front  yard  that  Mrs.  Quinby  has  just  despoiled 
of  flowers. 

"  So  you  will  go  !  we  can't  keep  you  !  "  says  Dr. 
Ambrose,  appropriating  one  of  the  flat-topped  trunks 
and  beaming  benevolently  around  at  the  disorder  about 
him.  "  I  suppose  you've  telegraphed  John." 

"  Yes.  He  knows  we  start  to-night !  "  says  Anthony, 
while  Anna,  never  loosing  her  affectionate  hold  of  Miss 
Ambrose's  hand,  leads  her  straightway  up  to  the  shrine 
of  her  own  idolatry. 

"  You've  never  said  he  was  pretty  yet.  You  must 
say  something  nice  for  him  before  I  take  him  away 
forever." 

Miss  Ambrose  bent  over,  determined  to  be  as  effusive 
as  possible,  and  murmured  something  inarticulate,  while 
her  heart  went  out  in  thankfulness  for  her  father's  gar. 
rulity. 


THE  DA  Y  OF  DEPARTURE.  53 

"  Forever  !  That's  a  stupendous  word.  We're  think- 
ing of  coming  out  to  pay  you  a  visit  as  soon  as  you  are 
settled. 

"  Tell  John  to  write  me  word  how  the  Saints  deal 
with  the  question  of  family  doctors,  rather  an  embar- 
rassing one,  I  should  imagine.  Effie  and  I  are  thinking 
of  going  over  as  reformers.  I'll  heal  their  bodies  while 
she  looks  after  their  souls.  We  are  conscious  of  the  emp- 
tiness of  life  in  this  overdone  section  of  the  country, 
and  we  feel  the  premonitory  symptoms  of  missionary 
zeal  burning  in  our  breasts!  Isn't  that  how  it  is,  daugh- 
ter?" 

Miss  Ambrose's  grave  eyes  rested  disapprovingly  on 
her  father's  laughing  face  for  a  second,  then  traveled 
out  to  the  ravaged  tulip  beds.  "  Your  tulips  were  so 
lovely  yesterday,  Anna :  what  has  happened  to  them 
all  ? "  she  asked  with  no  lifting  of  the  gravity  that 
seemed  part  of  her  facial  expression. 

"  I've  buried  the  tea-table  under  them,"  said  Anna. 
"  I  was  foolish  enough  to  think  the  new  people 
would  be  getting  some  of  my  heart  with  my  pretty 
tulips." 

"  You've  let  the  house  furnished,  I  believe,"  says  the 
doctor. 

"  Yes,  to  some  rich  Jew  !  You  know  the  flowers  would 
be  thrown  away  on  them,"  says  Mrs.  Quinby,  with  Gen- 
tile superiority. 

"  For  how  long?" 


54  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  Five  years,"  says  Anthony,  "  a  good  lease.  Anna 
preferred  not  to  sell." 

"  Best  not  burn  your  ships  behind  you.  You  can 
hold  it  in  terror  over  John,  if  wives  multiply  too  fast, 
that  you've  a  house  of  your  own  to  go  back  to.  I've 
heard  it  said  that  half  those  poor  devils  over  yonder — 
the  women  I  mean — are  held  in  bondage  for  the  want  of 
means  to  get  away  or  a  place  to  go  to." 

To  the  doctor,  as  to  most  men,  Salt  Lake  City  was  a 
standing  inspiration  of  poor  wit,  and  the  occasion 
was  never  wasted.  Anthony's  nicer  perception 
showed  him  how  the  clumsy  jest  grated  on  more  than 
one  of  the  women  present.  He  flung  himself  into  the 
breach. 

"  By  the  way,  doctor,  perhaps  it  would  help  you  and 
Miss  Ambrose  to  picture  Anna  in  her  new  home,  if  I 
were  to  read  you  John's  description  of  it,  in  the  letter 
that  reached  us  yesterday."  He  felt  in  the  inside- 
pocket  of  his  coat  and  produced  the  letter. 

"  Let's  have  it  by  all  means,"  and,  clasping  his  arms 
around  the  leg  he  had  recklessly  crossed,  unmindful  of 
his  precarious  position  on  the  high  trunk,  Dr.  Ambrose 
assumed  an  interested  attitude. 

"  What  a  statuesque  creature  ;  who  is  it  ?  "  Miss  Am- 
brose asks  in  a  low  voice  of  Anna,  while  they  are  wait- 
ing for  Anthony  to  open  his  letter.  It  is  slow  work 
with  his  one  hand,  but  he  is  not  awkward  about  it. 

"  It  is  Barbara!  and  she  has  come  to  say  tea  is  ready. 


THE  DA  Y  OF  DEPAR  TURE.  55 

The  letter  will  have  to  wait,  Tony,  or  you  can  read  it 
at  table.  She's  baby's  nurse,"  Mrs.  Quinby  added 
explanatorily  to  Effie,  quite  as  if  that  were  cause 
enough  for  any  one's  being. 

Standing  with  folded  arms  in  the  open  door-way  was 
the  girl  whom  Miss  Ambrose  had  just  called  statuesque, 
and  whom  a  little  while  back  Mrs.  Abbott  had  called  a 
"  stupid  creature."  Perhaps  she  was  both.  With  her 
superb  figure,  and  full  red  lips,  and  ox  eyes  and  crimped 
muslin  cap,  she  was  certainly  picturesque,  even  when 
not  posing  motionlessly  preferring  in  her  slow,  dull  fash- 
ion to  await  discovery  of  her  presence  and  purpose 
rather  than  to  announce  glibly  that  tea  was  served,  and 
bring  down  upon  her  a  battery  of  eyes.  She  showed 
the  tips  of  her  strong  white  teeth  in  a  smile  that  illumi- 
nated her  stolid  features  like  a  burst  of  sunshine  on  a 
stone  wall,  in  gratitude  for  being  saved  any  words,  and 
held  out  her  hands  to  take  the  baby  from  Mrs.  Abbott. 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  Barbara,  don't  drop  him,  and 
don't  plait  your  hair  over  him,  either,"  says  Mrs. 
Quinby,  standing  still  to  see  nurse  and  baby  safely 
located  in  the  chair. 

Barbara's  eyes  dropped  upon  the  child's  head,  her 
cheeks  flamed,  but  no  smile  came  this  time. 

"  You  have  hurt  her  feelings,"  says  Mrs.  Abbott,  as 
the  three  women  walked  in  after  the  doctor  and 
Anthony,  "  and  these  foreign  creatures  are  so  resent- 
ful." 


56  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  Can't  she  talk  at  all  ?  "  Miss  Ambrose  asked. 

"  Yes,  oh  yes.  She  can  make  herself  understood 
very  well  when  she  wants  to.  I  believe  she  hates  to 
talk,"  says  Anna,  settling  herself  behind  the  tea-tray. 

"  An  untenable  hypothesis  considering  her  sex,"  the 
doctor  says,  calling  on  his  stock  of  patent  jests,  which 
is  inexhaustible.  Then,  amid  the  subdued  clatter  of  the 
teaspoons  and  sugar  tongs  as  Anna  fills  the  cups, 
Anthony  reads  aloud  Mr.  Quinby's  last  letter,  in  which 
he  describes  the  pretty  two-storied  house,  delightfully 
sheltered  by  rustling  cotton-wood  trees,  and  so 
situated  as  to  give  a  charming  glimpse  of  the  Lake  and 
the  river  Jordan,  in  every  material  respect  a  vast  im- 
provement on  the  Elizabeth  house,  that  awaits  the 
coming  of  its  mistress,  and  in  which  John  has  already 
established  himself. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MR.   QUINBY   RECEIVES  VISITORS  AND   ADVICE. 

\  NTHONY'S  telegram  to  his  brother,  telling  him 
£\  that  baby  and  suite  were  on  the  eve  of  depart- 
ure for  Utah  found  that  gentleman  in  his  normal  con- 
dition of  satisfaction  with  himself  and  his  achievings. 
His  latest  achievement  had  been  the  procuring  and  re- 
pairing and  furnishing  of  a  house  for  the  reception  of 
his  family,  which,  he  quite  flattered  himself,  would  com- 
pare most  favorably  with  the  deserted  nest  in  Eliza- 
beth. He  had  taken  immense  interest  in  every  detail 
of  its  fitting  up,  and  when  he  had  located  a  brand  new 
sewing-machine  by  the  sunniest  window  in  the  pretty 
little  library,  and  bought  a  lovely  blue  and  white 
zephyr-wool  spread  for  the  swinging  cradle  that  cuddled 
close  by  the  side  of  the  big  bed  in  the  chamber  that 
Anna  was  to  occupy,  he  was  morajly  convinced  that 
no  man  could  do  more  to  insure  the  happiness  of  a 
woman  than  he  had  done  for  Mrs.  Quinby.  Anthony's 
telegram  found  him  at  the  new  address  of  this  house, 
where  he  slept  of  nights  and  was  already  getting  to 
feel  quite  as  if  it  was  his  home,  but  which  he  locked  up 


58  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

of  mornings  when  he  went  off  to  the  Cliff  House  for 
his  meals.  The  servant  problem  was  too  grave  a  one 
for  him  to  grapple.  Anna  must  see  to  that  when  she 
got  there.  He  hoped  the  house  would  strike  her  as 
especially  delightful,  coming  straight  to  it  travel  stained 
and  wearied. 

"  In  every  respect  an  improvement  on  the  old  nest," 
Mr.  Quinby  repeated,  walking  as  far  as  the  bay-window 
of  the  front  parlor  and  turning  to  observe  from  that 
distance  the  effect  of  the  curtains  that  had  been  put  up 
to  the  library  windows  that  day.  Anna's  forte  Avas 
color.  The  portieres  that  divided  the  library  from  the 
front  parlor  were  a  rich  wine  color  striped  with  old 
gold,  and  he  had  ordered  the  curtains  should  blend 
harmoniously.  Yes  !  he  believed  they  did !  By  the 
light  of  the  soft  shade  over  t.he  drop  light  in  the  center 
of  the  room  all  the  hangings  seemed  to  harmonize 
delightfully.  By  the  way,  he  mustn't  forget  to  order 
book-shelves  for  Anthony's  room  to-morrow.  Tony's 
comfort  was  a  very  important  item,  too.  A  ring  at  his 
front  door  made  Mr.  Quinby  start  so  violently  that  the 
ash  from  the  cigar  he  was  smoking  fell  in  a  gray  shower 
over  his  vest  front.  It  was  so  entirely  unexpected,  and 
the  sound  of  his  own  door-bell  had,  up  to  that  moment, 
never  smitten  his  ear.  These  gongs,  striking  just  in- 
side a  front  door,  were  startling  abominations  anyhow  \ 
It  could  be  nothing  but  another  telegram  from  An- 
thony. He  had  left  orders  at  the  office  for  them  to  be 


MR.   QUINBY  RECEIVES  VISITORS  AND  ADVICE.      59 

sent  down  if  any  arrived.  He  hoped  nothing  was 
wrong.  No  disappointment,  nor  delays,  nor  any  thing 
of  that  sort.  He  laid  his  cigar  down  on  the  mantel  in 
the  back  library  and  passed  out  through  that  room  into 
the  unlighted  hall.  It  was  scarcely  worth  the  trouble 
of  lighting  the  gas  just  to  take  a  telegram  from  a 
messenger,  so  he  left  the  library  door  open  and  a  feeble 
ray  of  light  found  its  way  along  the  hall  to  the  front 
door  which  Mr.  Quinby  opened  and  sent  out  into  the 
darkness  made  visible  a  somewhat  peremptory  : 

"Well?" 

"  Bishop  Shaw — Mr.  Quinby  !  "  came  blandly  from 
the  outer  darkness,  where  Mr.  Quinby  could  just  see 
two  dimly-outlined  human  figures,  that  stood  mute  and 
motionless  after  that  blind  introduction. 

"  A  thousand  pardons,  Bishop  Shaw.  One  moment, 
if  you  please.  Just  step  inside.  I  hadn't  an  idea  it 
was  any  one  but  a  messenger  with  a  telegram  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort,  you  know.  It  would  be  rather  in- 
accurate to  say  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  when  I've  only 
heard  you  so  far."  All  this  in  the  fleet  second  it  took 
Mr.  Quinby  to  find  his  match-safe  in  the  side  pocket 
of  his  coat,  and  light  the  low-hanging  hall-lamp,  which 
discovered  to  view  an  elderly  couple,  of  the  quietly 
genteel  order,  standing  just  inside  the  front  door  they 
had  obligingly  closed  for  him  while  he  was  fumbling 
for  a  match.  One  of  them  he  was  quite  sure  he  had 
never  seen  before,  the  other  one  he  had  very  especial 


6o  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

commercial  reasons  for  desiring  to  propitiate.  Bishop 
Shaw  was  not  only  a  power  in  the  community,  but  he 
was  in  an  indirect  way  useful  to  the  busine*  concern 
which  Mr.  Quinby  represented. 

"  My  wife  Laetitia,  Mr.  Quinby — the  first  Mrs.  Shaw  " 
— says  the  bishop,  when  they  all  stand  revealed  to  each 
other,  affably  indicating  by  a  motion  of  the  hat  he  had 
just  taken  off  a  diminutive  lady  dressed  in  a  house 
dress  of  black  silk,  and  with  only  a  zephyr  hood  thrown 
over  her  curly  gray  hair,  by  which  Mr.  Quinby  knows 
that  they  can  not  have  come  from  much  of  a  distance 
to  pay  him  this  unsolicited  visit. 

Mr.  Quinby  repeats  his  apologies  for  his  seeming  in- 
hospitality  over  the  delicate  white  hand  the  bishop's 
wife  Laetitia  holds  out  to  him,  and  leads  the  way  back 
to  the  library,  where  he  installs  the  lady  in  the  big 
plush  easy-chair,  which  he  has  already  come  to  think 
of  as  "  Anna's  chair,"  not  without  a  conscious  qualm 
at  the  thought  of  what  Anna's  attitude  would  be  if 
she  only  knew.  He  turned  the  gas  well  up  before 
seating  himself,  determined  to  get  as  much  as  possible 
out  of  this  first  glimpse  of  the  social  life  of  which  he 
and  his  wife  must  partake  in  a  more  or  less  remote 
degree. 

Report  had  familiarized  him  with  the  number  of 
Bishop  Shaw's  wives — only  five  !  He  supposed  it  was 
due  to  atmospheric  influences  that  he  felt  so  little  of  a 
shock  at  receiving  under  his  own  roof  a  member  of  so 


MR.   QUINBY  RECEIVES  VISITORS  AND  ADVICE.      61 

complacent  a  home  circle.  But  then,  he  reiterated  to 
himself,  the  social  aspect  of  this  community  was  fund 
for  his  curiosity  only,  and  unless  Anna  had  altered 
considerably  during  his  few  months'  absence  from  her, 
his  chances  to  satisfy  that  curiosity  would  be  very 
much  diminished  after  her  arrival.  He  felt  thankful 
in  a  degree  that  Bishop  Shaw  had  selected  his  first  wife 
for  this  unexpected  neighborly  advance.  There  must 
always  be  an  air  of  authenticity  about  number  one  that 
is  not  transferable,  in  the  monogamic  mind,  to  succeed- 
ing wives. 

The  bishop  and  his  wife  presented  some  very  strik- 
ing physical  contrasts  that  impressed  themselves  upon 
Mr.  Quinby,  as  he,  seated  between  them,  gave  them 
his  attention  politely  and  impartially.  The  bishop's 
rotundity  was  in  sharp  contrast  with  his  wife's  angular- 
ity, his  ruddiness  with  her  pallor,  his  soldierly  air  of 
command  with  her  gentleness  of  acquiescence.  Not 
that  just  such  suggestiveness  of  the  man's  having  the 
better  of  things  generally  was  not  as  frequently  to  be 
seen  elsewhere,  Mr.  Quinby  assured  himself,  for  no 
one  could  look  into  Mrs.  Shaw's  serene  face  and  doubt 
her  perfect  satisfaction  with  her  lot  in  life  as  it  was. 

She  was  a  pleasing  object  for  contemplation  to  the 
young  man,  whose  acquaintance  heretofore  had  been 
confined  to  the  commercial  circles  of  Salt  Lake  City. 
Her  soft  white  hair,  arranged  in  two  little  bunches  of 
crisp  curls,  shaded  a  forehead  uncreased  by  any  lines 


62  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

excepting  those  traced  by  the  finger  of  Time.  Her 
clear  gray  eyes  were  as  untroubled  as  two  mountain 
lakelets,  that  have  never  reflected  any  thing  except  the 
blue  of  the  skies  above  them.  She  had  a  sweet,  patient 
mouth,  and  a  queer  little  trick  of  waiting,  with  the  pro- 
found respect  of  a  little  child,  for  her  turn  in  the  con- 
versation, quite,  you  know,  as  if  she  had  learned  to  be 
satisfied  with  a  fraction  of  attention,  and  was  not  im- 
bued with  any  feminine  spirit  of  exaction.  But  the 
bishop's  leadership,  even  in  the  matter  of  smiles,  was 
always  promptly  seconded  by  her  wifely  co-opera- 
tion. She  seemed  quite  content,  sitting  there 
in  Mr.  Quinby's  pretty  library,  with  her  blue- 
veined  hands  clasped  about  a  newspaper  she 
had  brought  with  her,  to  absorb  the  chat  of  the 
men  and  to  smile  her  appreciation  of  any  good  point 
made  by  her  husband  or  their  host.  Not  that  Mrs. 
Shaw  lacked  intelligence  of  her  own  or  was  deficient 
in  the  matter  of  views :  she  had  both  in  galore,  and 
was  a  favorite  contributor  to  the  "  Woman's  Expo- 
nent," a  copy  of  which  she  had  brought  with  her 
and  to  which  she  intended  Mr.  Quinby  should  become 
a  subscriber  before  she  left  the  house.  But  she  had  out- 
lived the  age  when  a  woman  considered  it  necessary  to 
be  constantly  vindicating  herself  as  a  thinking  animal 
by  the  vigorous  action  of  her  tongue,  in  consequence 
of  which  her  ideas  had  time  to  crystallize,  and  her 
mental  conclusions  were  generally  as  clear  cut  as 


MR.  QUINBY  RECEIVES  VISITORS  AND  ADVICE.      63 

cameos  and  quite  as  precious  in  the  eyes  of  her  hus- 
band, who  was  very  fond  of  assuring  his  friends  that 
"  Mrs.  Laetitia  Shaw  was  a  very  remarkable  woman,  a 
very  remarkable  woman  indeed,  sir!  " 

While  Bishop  Shaw  and  Mr.  Quinby  talked  stocks 
and  trade  and  the  political  outlook  of  Utah  with 
friendly  frankness,  Mrs.  Shaw  was  taking  in  every 
detail  of  the  room  they  sat  in,  with  feminine  quickness 
of  approval. 

All  this  home  comfort  seemed  to  lack  a  vindication. 
Surely  that  selfish  monster  of  a  man,  if  he  did  come  from 
New  York,  where  men  were  conceded  to  be  more  self- 
ish and  more  monstrous  than  any  where  else  on  the 
globe,  could  not  have  fitted  up  such  a  home  as  this 
for  his  own  exclusive  use!  She  had  heard  that  he  was 
a  Gentile  totally  untouched  by  the  teachings  of  the 
New  Gospel ;  perhaps  they  had  all  been  culpably 
indifferent  to  his  enlightenment.  It  was  with  a  view 
of  remedying  her  own  shortcomings  in  this  respect 
that  she  had  brought  with  her  the  "  Woman's  Expo- 
nent." Surely  a  Mormon  paper  in  which  was  chroni- 
cled the  doings  of  Mormon  women,  telling  about  their 
relief  and  charitable  societies,  and  taking  a  vigorous 
stand  in  defense  of  their  political  rights,  edited  by 
Mormon  women,  ought  to  be  a  powerful  agency  in 
removing  the  scales  of  ignorance  and  prejudice  from 
the  handsome  eyes  of  this  new-comer.  But  perhaps 
they — the  scales — had  already  fallen,  for  if  the  fitting 


64  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

up  of  this  elegant  home  did  not  mean  a  determination 
on  his  part  to  be  sealed  soon,  what  did  it  mean  ? 

Thus  Mrs.  Shaw  to  herself,  as  her  eyes  traveled 
back  from  a  dainty  little  cabinet  writing-desk  that  was 
fit  for  nothing  but  a  woman's  pretty  papeterie  and  value- 
less little  notes,  to  the  handsome  form  and  face  of  the 
young  man,  who  was  listening  with  grave  respect  to  the 
bishop's  description  of  the  inner  workings  at  Temple 
Block,  which  is  the  sacred  square  of  the  Latter-day 
Saints. 

With  womankind's  ineradicable  passion  for  helping 
on  all  affairs  of  the  heart,  she  began  running  over  in 
her  mind  the  eligibility  of  the  various  unsealed  girls 
within  her  list  of  acquaintances.  It  was  a  duty  she 
owed,  not  only  to  this  wanderer  from  the  right  way, 
but  to  the  females  of  her  own  circle,  who,  unsealed, 
could  never  hope  to  attain  in  this  world  or  in  the 
world  to  come,  any  position  above  that  of  a  menial. 
Beginning  very  close  at  home,  she  was  inclined  to 
think  that  in  classes  three  and  five,  of  the  bishop's 
own  flock,  the  sweetest  and  brightest  girls  of  her 
acquaintance  were  to  be  found.  She  would  talk  to  the 
bishop  about  it  when  they  went  home.  He  might  have 
some  preferences  of  his  own  in  favor  of  class  number 
two,  for  she  was  rather  inclined  to  think  that  of  all 
his  daughters,  Bishop  Shaw  was  a  little  fonder  of 
Eugenia  in  that  class  than  of  any  of  the  others.  Her 
own  offspring,  all  boys,  enabled  Mrs.  Laetitia  to  take 


MA'.   QUINBY  RECEIVES  VISITORS  AND  ADVICE.      65 

a  widely  impartial  view  of  this  matter  in  her  thoughts. 
The  discovery  of  a  sewing-machine,  whose  fancy  iron- 
pedals  just  peeped  from  under  the  fringe  of  an 
embroidered  felt  cover,  settled  her  mind  conclusively 
as  to  Mr.  Quinby's  intentions. 

What  a  pleasant  voice  he  has !  she  brought  her  mind 
back  from  the  consideration  of  classes  three  and  five 
to  hear  Mr.  Quinby  say,  in  a  voice  of  amiable  conces- 
sion, apropos  of  what,  she  hadn't  any  idea  : 

"  The  argument  is  on  your  side  there,  sir.  There  is 
no  denying  that  if  the  economy  and  probity  that 
characterize  the  administration  of  your  public  offices 
here  were  infused  into  similar  institutions  at  home,  we 
would  be  the  better  for  it." 

Bishop  Shaw  was  a  singularly  upright  and  fearless 
man.  He  was  paying  no  purposeless  call  this  evening. 
He  considered  that  he  had  a  duty  to  perform  toward 
this  young  man  who  had  just  become  a  householder  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  it  was  with  a  view  to  performing 
that  duty  as  successfully  as  possible  that  he  had 
selected  the  first  Mrs.  Shaw  as  his  co-adjutor. 

This  Mrs.  Shaw  was  regarded  by  the  Saints  at  large 
as  an  embodied  negation  of  all  the  slanders  that  had 
been  heaped  upon  their  peculiar  tenets.  Her  unvary- 
ing serenity,  her  placid  cheerfulness,  her  active  efforts 
for  the  extension  and  strengthening  of  an  institution 
which  had  shaped  her  own  life  and  satisfied  her  own 
soul,  was  the  best  possible  refutation  of  all  calumnies. 


66  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

And  she  was  always  eager  to  throw  the  weight  of  her 
experience  and  conviction  into  the  scales  against 
unbelief. 

The  bishop's  eye  had  been  upon  Mr.  Quinby  ever 
since  his  arrival  in  Salt  Lake  City,  but  he  was  too 
adroit  a  man  to  jeopardize  his  chances  of  success  in 
any  undertaking  by  bungling  hastiness.  The  two 
men  had  been  thrown  intimately  together  in  business 
circles,  which  had  afforded  the  older  man  a  golden 
opportunity  to  study  the  younger  one. 

He  received  Mr.  Quinby's  indorsement  of  the  city 
government  in  placid  silence.  Presently  he  said, 
fastening  his  keen  eyes  on  his  host's  face  : 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  indorse  us  from  a  business- 
man's standpoint,  friend  Quinby.  We  think  we've  got 
the  best  of  the  outside  world  on  the  highest  moral 
grounds  also,  and  I  hope,  indeed,  I  may  say  I  infer 
from  what  I  see," — embracing  the  apartment  with  ex- 
panded arms — "  that  you  are  imbibing  juster  views  of 
man's  duty,  as  a  social  and  religious  being,  than  you 
probably  brought  with  you." 

"  Beg  pardon  !  "  says  Mr.  Quinby  with  a  mystified 
look. 

"  I  mean  this  home,"  the  bishop  explains,  spreading 
his  hands  expansively  once  more,  then  folding  them 
with  interlocked  fingers  over  his  rotund  form. 

"Yes? "still  questioningly. 

"  Of  course,   it  means  that  you  are  preparing  to  go 


MR.   QUINBY  RECEIVES  VISITORS  AND  ADVICE.      6f 

through  the  Endowment  House !  To  be  sealed, 
that  is." 

Mr.  Quinby's  mustache  twitched  convulsively,  and 
nothing  but  a  providential  sneeze  saved  him  from  de- 
tection. What  a  mercy  Anna  wasn't  there !  he 
thought. 

"  It's  really  all  very  pretty  and  snug,  and  evidently 
arranged  with  a  view  to  a  woman's  comfort,"  says 
Mrs.  Shaw  in  her  soft,  purring  way,  looking  at  John 
so  coaxingly  that  he  had  to  supplement  his  sneeze 
with  a  prolonged  application  of  his  pocket-handker- 
chief. 

"  I  hope  my  wife  will  like  it  all,"  he  said,  glancing 
away  from  them  to  the  sewing-machine  for  strength. 
"  I  was  married  some  two  years  and  better  ago,  and 
am  just  to-night  in  receipt  of  a  telegram  from  my 
brother,  telling  me  he  left  Elizabeth  at  eight-thirty 
with  my  wife  and  baby.  I  have  never  seen  my  boy," 
he  adds,  more  particularly  to  Mrs.  Shaw,  as  an  item 
of  special  interest  to  her  woman's  ears. 

"  You  must  be  very  anxious,"  she  says,  but  not  with 
that  vivid  interest  that  John  thought  the  mention  of 
his  boy  ought  to  excite.  There  was  an  absent  look  in 
her  eyes  he  had  not  noticed  before.  "  Elizabeth,  did 
you  say,  your  people  were  coming  from  ?" 

"  Yes.     It  was  our  old  home." 

"  And  mine  too.  I  lived  there  when  I  was  a  girl. 
Oh,  so  many  years  ago  !  I  would  like  to  ask  you — 


6&  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

But  Bishop  Shaw  interrupts  her  in  a  somewhat  argu- 
mentative voice : 

"  This  is  a  pretty  good-sized  house,  I  believe,  friend 
Quinby." 

"  Yes.  A  trifle  larger  than  we  will  need,  but  unless 
one  builds  one  can  not  have  things  just  to  suit.  I  espe- 
cially decided  on  this  house,  because  of  the  fine 
prospect  from  the  windows  in  the  rear." 

"Always  best  to  have  plenty  of  room.  Women  like 
plenty  of  space  to  exert  their  energies  in.  It  keeps 
them  out  of  pecks  of  trouble.  My  wife  Laetitia  there 
now  can  tell  you  how  we  began  housekeeping  in  our 
big  house  just  across  the  street  from  the  Lion  House, 
rattling  around  like  two  dies  in  a  dice  box,  but  how 
we  gradually  grew  to  the  house  until  it  was  a  pretty 
snug  fit.  My  wife  Laetitia  there,  now,  is  your  next- 
door  neighbor.  All  of  her  boys  are  big  grown  fellows 
that  will  soon  be  making  homes  for  themselves.  Laetitia 
has  moved  out  of  our  large  house  ;  it's  a  little  too  noisy 
for  her." 

He  paused  for  Mrs.  Shaw  to  complete  the  story  of 
their  early  domestic  arrangements.  She  turned  her 
serene  eyes  from  her  husband's  face  to  Mr.  Quinby 's 
deeply  interested  one. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him  and  absently  folding 
the  Woman's  Exponent  into  yet  smaller  compass. 
"  I'm  not  quite  sure  that  Harriet  and  I  could  have  kept 
house  so  comfortably  if  we  had  not  been  divided  into 


MR.   QUINBY  RECEIVES  VISITORS  AND  ADVICE.      69 

upper  and  lower  stories.  I  took  the  first  floor  and  she 
the  second.  I  believe  this  house  has  two  stories  ?" 

"  Yes,  madam." 

That  was  all  Mr.  Quinby  dared  trust  himself  to  by 
way  of  response.  There  were  but  two  ways  for  him,  as 
a  good  Gentile  husband,  to  treat  these  scarcely  veiled 
suggestions.  One  was  to  laugh  at  it  all  as  a  huge  joke ; 
the  other,  to  resent  it  indignantly  for  Anna's  sake ; 
for  really,  in  analyzing  his  sensations,  he  could  not  con- 
scientiously find  the  due  amount  of  horror  at  the 
picture  of  the  actual  Mrs.  Quinby  keeping  house  down 
stairs  and  an  imaginary  Mrs.  Quinby  holding  undis- 
puted sway  over  his  second  story,  if  not  over  his  pre- 
occupied heart. 

But  situated  as  he  was,  he  dared  neither  laugh  nor 
frown.  How  could  he  laugh  or  frown  either  in  the 
faces  of  these  two  people  who  accepted  the  religious 
tenets  of  the  New  Gospel  as  a  direct  revelation  of  God's 
will,  which  to  accept  and  to  follow  was  to  entitle  them 
to  the  reward  promised  the  pure  in  heart  ?  How  could 
he  either  laugh  or  frown  into  the  face  of  this  serene 
browed  old  lady  into  whose  minutest  act  he  did  not 
doubt  there  entered  more  of  conscientious  performance 
than  had  ever  informed  his  loftiest  act  ?  How  could  he 
either  laugh  or  frown  in  the  face  of  adherents  to  a 
gospel  which  claimed  that  "  if  there  is  any  thing 
virtuous,  lovely  or  of  good  report  or  praiseworthy,  we 
seek  after  those  things  "  ?  Was  he  his  brother's  keeper 


70  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

that  he  should  decide  for  him  what  was  lovely  or  of 
good  report  or  praiseworthy  ?  Besides,  he  dared  neither 
laugh  nor  frown  at  Benjamin  G.  Shaw,  as  he  knew  the 
bishop  best  in  commercial  circles.  No,  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  grant  them  grave  audience ;  and 
when,  perhaps  fully  an  hour  later,  he  stood  for  a  second 
on  his  front  stoop  and  watched  the  slowly  vanishing 
forms  of  Bishop  Shaw  and  his  wife  Laetitia,  as  they 
walked  toward  their  own  home,  he  was  conscious  that 
he  had  been  the  object  of  an  experiment. 

And  Mrs.  Shaw,  as  soon  as  they  were  well  out  of 
hearing  of  the  young  man,  asked,  in  a  voice  of  deepest 
interest,  "Well,  husband,  what  do  you  think  of  the 
soil?"  And  the  bishop  answered,  sententiously:  "The 
seed  has  been  sown  in  good  soil.  I  have  planted,  you 
may  water  and  may  God  give  the  increase." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

DISCIPLINE  AND   DEFEAT. 

A  FEW  more  fluttering  yellow  leaves  from  the  tele- 
graph office  reporting  progress,  and  then,  toward 
the  close  of  a  bright  day  made  very  long,  however,  by 
ardent  expectation,  Mr.  Quinby  had  the  pleasure  of 
folding  his  wife  and  boy  in  one  expansive  embrace. 

"  You  are  looking  blooming,  but  I  don't  like  Anna's 
appearance  at  all,"  he  said  to  Anthony,  after  his  first 
impressions  of  his  son  had  been  put  upon  record  and 
Anna's  delight  over  every  thing  in  the  house  had  been 
breathlessly  expressed,  and  he  and  Tony  were  facing 
each  other  over  their  cigars,  just  as  in  the  old  Elizabeth 
days. 

At  the  moment  of  his  making  that  remark,  however, 
Mrs.  Quinby  had  gone  to  assure  herself  for  the  third  or 
fourth  time  that  the  baby  could  not  by  any  feat  of 
agility  tumble  out  of  the  new  crib  that  had  received 
him  hospitably  very  soon  after  his  arrival  from  the  depot 
of  the  Utah  Central  Railroad. 

"  The  boy  is  something  of  an  absorbent,  you  know, 
and  I  am  afraid  Anna  is  one  of  those  women  who  think 


72  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

that  nothing  short  of  immolation  of  self  will  fill  the  re- 
quirements of  motherhood.  By  the  way,  one  of  many 
last  things  Mrs.  Abbott  said  to  me  was — '  Tell  John  he 
must  take  a  very  peremptory  stand  with  Anna  at 
night.  She  gets  no  rest  and  is  ruining  the  child.'  I've 
given  you  her  message  verbatim." 

"  I  shall  certainly  take  matters  in  hand,"  says  Mr. 
Quinby,  who  feels  personally  aggrieved  at  having  his 
wife  come  to  him  thin  and  wan,  with  the  beauty  that 
he  especially  married  her  for  evidently  on  the  wane. 

"  Who  or  what  is  that  you  are  going  to  take  in  hand 
so  promptly?"  she  asks,  coming  back  just  then  and 
drawing  her  chair  very  close  to  John's.  Close  enough 
for  her  to  lay  her  pretty  hand  upon  his  knee  in  the 
olden  fashion,  sure  that  it  will  be  clasped  soon  and 
retained  affectionately.  It  is  very  sweet  to  feel  John 
so  close  to  her  once  more.  She  wonders  how  she 
existed  without  him  all  these  months.  And  how  well 
and  handsome  he  is  looking! 

"You,  primarily,  and  the  boy,  secondarily.  I  have  no 
notion  of  sitting  opposite  a  hollow-eyed  wife  every 
morning  at  breakfast.  See  how  the  rings  jingle  on  your 
fingers !  We  must  do  better  than  this.  How  old  is 
our  son  ?  Three  months,  or  four,  is  it?  " 

"  Three  months  and  four  days,"  Mrs.  Quinby 
answered  with  a  woman's  conscientiousness  touching 
things  of  little  import. 

"  My  dear,  if  I  were  in  your  place  I  should  not  permit 


DISCIPLINE  AND  DEFEA  T.  73 

myself  to  be  made  such  a  slave  of  to  that  child.  He  is 
quite  old  enough  now  for  you  to  begin  disciplining  him. 
Fixed  hours  for  nourishment  and  a  little  determination 
on  your  part  are  all  that  is  necessary  to  reduce  order 
out  of  chaos.  I'll  undertake  him.  It  is  nothing  more 
than  right  that  the  pains  and  penalties  attaching  to 
such  a  valuable  possession  as  a  son  should  be  shared  as 
evenly  as  possible  between  us." 

"  Good  !  "  says  Anthony.  "  I  am  ready  to  indorse 
you  as  a  model  father  on  the  strength  of  such  noble 
utterances." 

But  Anna  only  smiled  into  the  face  of  the  would-be 
reformer.  It  was  simply  delicious  to  have  John  so  con- 
cerned about  her  and  wanting  to  help  her  this  way  ! 
He  wasn't  weaned  away  from  her  one  bit !  But  the 
idea  of  determination  in  connection  with  baby  was  too 
funny!  She  was  altogether  too  happy,  however,  to 
feel  like  arguing  the  point.  She  must  forewarn  him  a 
little  though. 

"  It  might  mortify  your  vanity  arid  lessen  your  pride 
of  paternity,  John  dear,  to  discover,  if  you  really  do 
undertake  him,  as  you  express  it,  to  find  out  how 
curiously  your  boasted  strength  and  the  baby's  acknowl- 
edged weakness  may  become  transposed.  The  battle 
is  not  always  to  the  strong,  dear." 

But  Mr.  Quinby  was  wise  in  his  own  conceit.  He 
not  able  to  cope  with  that  small,  soft,  helpless  thing 
up  stairs  !  The  idea  was  too  absurd  ! 


74  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  Nothing  can  be  simpler.  There's  the  baby  ;  there's 
the  bottle  ;  there's  the  clock !  Three  hours'  interval 
must  be  observed.  It  will  be  a  little  troublesome  for 
the  first  night  or  two,  but  after  that  peace  will  reign, 
and  you  will  reap  the  benefit  of  it  as  well  as  the  child," 
he  says,  evidently  enjoying  this  first  opportunity  to 
exercise  his  paternal  authority.  "  1  shall  take  com- 
mand to-night." 

"  If  I  were  an  autocrat,"  says  Anthony,  laughing  at 
the  consternation  in  Anna's  face,  "  I  would  decree  that 
whenever  a  man  recklessly  remarked  to  his  wife,  '  If  I 
were  in  your  place,  I  would  do  this,  that  or  t'other,' 
he  should,  by  the  majestic  arm  of  the  law,  be  put  into 
her  place  and  made  to  suit  his  actions  to  his  words,  or, 
in  case  of  failure,  be  made,  figuratively  speaking,  to 
eat  his  own  boastful  utterances.  Then  we  would  find 
out  where  the  equanimity  comes  in  and  where  the 
power  to  suffer  and  be  strong  goes  out.  Nannie,  if  you 
are  the  wise  woman  I  take  you  to  be,  you  will  enjoy  a 
good  night's  sleep  and  let  your  autocrat  wrestle  with 
that  small  bundle  of  activity  up  stairs.  I  hope  you  will 
give  me  the  benefit  of  your  experience  in  the  morning, 
John.  I  expect  to  find  you  a  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 
at  the  breakfast  table.  Good-night." 

"  We  are  all  tired  enough  for  one  day,"  says  Mr. 
Quinby,  rising  as  Anthony  disappears,  and  proceeding 
to  turn  off  the  gas  in  the  parlor  and  the  library,  that 
has  been  lighted  to  the  point  of  an  illumination  in 


DISCIPLINE  AND  DEFEA  T.  75 

this  night  of  jubilee.  Anna  watches  him  from  the  soft 
nest  of  her  easy  chair  with  eyes  aglow  with  happi- 
ness. 

"Oh  !  John,  it  isn't  a  bit  like  Utah,"  she  says,  wind- 
ing both  hands  about  his  arm  as  they  mount  the  stairs 
together. 

"What  isn't  a  bit  like  Utah  ?  "  he  asks,  pinching  the 
ear  that  nestles  close  to  his  shoulder. 

"Oh  !  every  thing!  This  pretty  house  and  you  and 
Tony  and  I  all  together  again  with  nobody  else." 

"  Excepting  the  boy  and  his  nurse.  By  the  way, 
that  girl  Barbara  is  too  stunningly  handsome  to  be  a 
good  servant." 

"  And  no  hateful  hotel  with  horrid  Mormon  wretches 
in  it  thinking  themselves  as  good  as  any  body  and  star- 
ing at  you  and  wondering  if  you  are  a  man's  real  wife 
or  his — his — "  says  Anna,  pursuing  her  own  line  of 
thought  rather  incoherently.  "You  know,  John,  there 
just  can't  be  but  one  genuine  wife  in  the  whole  lot." 

"  I  take  it  your  ideas  are  pretty  crude  yet,  dear.  I 
don't  think  people  waste  as  much  time  wondering  over 
every  new  face  as  you  imagine.  I  suppose  you  feel 
thankful  not  to  find  any  more  Mrs.  Quinbys  here  in 
advance  of  you.  Is  that  why  it  isn't  a  bit  like 
Utah?" 

It  was  a  clumsy  jest,  and  he  could  feel  her  wince 
under  it.  He  had  been  so  elated  over  the  result  of  his 
strategic  move  in  bringing  her  immediately  into  the 


76  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

sacred  home  atmosphere,  that  he  felt  warranted  in  in- 
dulging  in  a  little  jocularity.      What   an   immensely- 
thin-skinned  creature  your  good  woman  is  at  best,  he 
thought,  hastening  to  do  away  with  his  clumsiness. 

"  To-morrow  morning  I  want  you  to  see  the  sunrise 
from  the  bay  window  in  your  room,  and  then  I  think 
you  will  really  fall  in  love  with  your  new  home.  I 
selected  your  sleeping-room  with  a  special  view  to  that 
outlook." 

The  shaded  kerosene  lamp  on  the  hearth,  which 
seemed  to  appeal  more  strongly  to  the  olfactories  than 
to  any  other  sense,  supporting  its  small  sauce-pan  of 
simmering  milk,  the  mysteriously  stoppered  bottle  in 
its  close  neighborhood,  together  with  the  softly  undulat- 
ing heap  under  the  zephyr-wool  cover  of  the  crib  that 
was  drawn  close  to  the  bed-side,  combined  to  give  Mr. 
Quinby  his  first  realizing  sense  of  being  a  family  man, 
and  infused  the  last  touch  of  peremptoriness  into  the 
tones  in  which  he  repeated  as  he  adjusted  the  pillow  to 
the  nape  of  his  neck, 

"  Remember,  Anna,  twelve  o'clock  is  the  hour  im- 
mutably fixed  for  refreshments,  which  I  will  adminis- 
ter. You  must  rest,  and  all  I  ask  is  non-interference 
on  your  part,"  and  with  the  resolution  of  all  the  Medes 
and  Persians  condensed  into  the  determination  to  show 
his  wife  what  a  simple  operation  disciplining  a  baby 
might  be  made,  Mr.  Quinby  settled  himself  to  sleep 
the  intermediate  hours  away. 


DISCIPLINE  AND  DEFEAT.  77 

About  eleven  o'clock  indications  of  activity  were 
noticeable  in  the  enemy's  camp.  A  pink  fist  struck 
out  energetically  but  rather  aimlessly  at  space,  followed 
at  a  short  interval  by  one  pink  foot,  which  was  quickly 
reinforced  by  its  fellow.  A  soft,  low-murmured  pre- 
lude, known  in  nursery  parlance  as  a  "  fret,"  broke 
upon  the  hush  of  night.  A  second  pink  fist  clutched 
wildly  in  the  direction  where  the  peace-offering  was 
habitually  and  promptly  offered  by  Mrs.  Quinby  at  this 
stage  of  the  proceedings.  A  moment  of  still  surprise ! 
It  was  evident  the  baby  was  reasoning  from  cause  to 
effect.  He  would  not  be  too  hard  on  the  mother  whose 
shortcomings  were  so  few.  Perhaps  the  lamp  had 
gone  out  and  the  milk  was  cold.  It  was  sure 
to  come.  She  had  never  failed  him  yet !  Indigna- 
tion, surprise,  dismay  and  desolation  are  distinctly 
and  emphatically  voiced  in  a  crescendo  and  acceler- 
ando passage  skillfully  executed  the  next  moment  by 
Mr.  Abbott  Quinby  under  conviction  of  treachery  some- 
where. Mr.  Quinby  senior  cautiously  raises  himself 
on  one  elbow  to  observe  this  phenomenal  (to  him)  pro- 
ceeding, and  is  thankful  that  poor  Anna  has  not  been 
disturbed  by  the  shrill  outcry.  He  supposes  that  is 
the  baby's  way  of  protesting,  and  of  course  he  will  go 
to  sleep  again  now,  having  protested.  Mrs.  Quinby's 
tender  heart  is  lacerated,  but  she  too  stoops  to  conquer 
occasionally,  and  as  John  can  only  be  taught  by  ex- 
perience, she  will  not  interfere  until  he  voluntarily  re- 


78  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

turns  the  usurped  scepter  into  her  maternal  hands.  She 
buries  her  head  deeper  into  the  pillows  to  deaden  the 
sound  of  the  coming  storm,  for  no  one  knows  better 
than  she  that  the  boy  will  not  go  to  sleep  after  that 
first  protest.  The  springs  of  the  bed  creak  heavily  as 
Mr.  Quinby  squirms  restlessly  in  a  very  un-Mede  and 
un-Persian-like  disquiet,  while  his  son  makes  night  vocal 
and  murders  sleep.  Anna  heroically  refrains  from 
quoting,  "  a  little  determination  is  all  that  is  necessary 
to  reduce  order  out  of  chaos."  She  feels  placidly  sure 
that  before  thirty  more  minutes  have  rolled  over  her 
husband's  inexperienced  head  he  will  have  been 
brought  to  a  knowledge  of  the  fact  that  determination 
is  not  peculiarly  a  characteristic  of  the  adult  male  of 
his  species.  Finding  that  masterly  inactivity  does  r!bt 
conquer  a  peace  as  promptly  as,  in  his  ignorance  he 
had  calculated  upon,  Mr.  Quinby  has  recourse  to  ter- 
rorizing. One  sonorous,  baby-blood-curdling  "  Hush, 
sir !  "  mingles  with  the  fray,  and  as  it  produces  the 
temporary  quietude  of  abject  fear,  the  semblance  of 
peace  is  restored  and  Mr.  Quinby  turns  over  on  his 
side  in  premature  triumph,  conscious  of  a  growing 
conviction  that  there  never  was  a  more  tempestuous 
infant  than  his  son,  nor  a  stronger  smelling  lamp  than 
the  one  then  filling  the  atmosphere  of  his  chamber,  nor 
a  slower  moving  clock  than  the  one  that  was  deliber- 
ately discounting  the  moments  from  the  bank  of  time 
into  the  exchequer  of  eternity  while  he  was  in  sore 


DISCIPLINE  AND  DEFEA  T.  79 

travail  of  spirit.  Also,  he  began  to  entertain  a  much 
higher  opinion  of  his  wife's  administrative  ability.  By 
half-past  eleven  o'clock  the  slumber  that  had  been  the 
result  of  terror  and  not  of  satiety,  was  broken  into  flin- 
ders by  the  tempestuous  wail  the  baby  sent  out  in  fresh 
assertion  of  his  rights,  alongside  of  which  the  shriek  of 
the  American  eagle  was  as  the  cooing  of  a  dove.  The 
question  of  capitulation  began  to  assume  grave  pro- 
port  ions— not  on  the  part  of  the  infantry.  But  could 
a  Mede  and  Persian,  as  exemplified  in  Mr.  Quinby's 
resolute  soul,  surrender  unconditionally  to  a  babe  and  a 
suckling?  Manhood,  discipline  and  dignity  forbade  it. 
That  child  must  learn  that  there  were  opposing  wills  in 
the  world.  He  fell  back  on  strategy.  A  feeble  species 
of  parley  was  held  with  the  enemy !  False  promises 
were  extended  ;  flattering  endearments  were  lavished; 
coaxing  insinuations  flowed  freely.  But  the  enemy 
scorned  a  truce.  The  milk  bottle  formed  the  base  of 
his  exactions,  and  he  was  not  to  be  driven  therefrom. 
The  bewildered  reformer  stood  irresolute  over  the  crib, 
looking  down  in  perplexed  astonishment  at  this  tur- 
bulent agglomeration  of  tiny  limbs,  vigorous  lungs, 
soft  helplessness  and  unconquerable  will.  He  wished 
that  Anna  would  wake  up  just  long  enough  to  hold  a 
council  of  war  with  him,  or  to  suggest  terms  of  capitu- 
lation. But  while- the  baby  rent  the  peace  of  night  in 
twain  his  mother  snored  in  a  gentle,  lady-like  fashion 
that  filled  ME.  Quinby  with  amazement.  Could  he  ever 


8o  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

become  so  accustomed  to  this  uproar  ?  No  signs  of 
weakening  or  of  surrender  were  observable  on  the 
baby's  part  as  the  moments  sped  on.  Mr.  Quinby  felt 
them  numerously  on  his  own.  However,  according  to 
discipline  and  the  sanitarians,  supported  by  all  the 
best  doctors  and  nurses  in  the  land,  three  hours  should 
intervene  between  "  drinks."  That  unsympathetic 
clock  pointed  to  quarter  of  twelve.  Fifteen  more  min- 
utes of  this  pandemonium.  Could  mortal  flesh  endure 
fifteen  more  seconds  of  it  ?  Threadbare  indeed  ! 
Small  wonder  Anna  looked  like  a  shadow  of  herself. 
It  was  a  wonder  she  had  a  pound  of  flesh  on  her  bones. 
Soon  Mrs.  Quinby  hears  a  splashing  as  of  milk  being 
recklessly  dashed  from  the  nursery  mug  into  the 
bottle,  followed  by  a  gurgling  sound  as  of  refreshment 
rather  urgently  proffered. 

"  Don't  choke  him,  John,  dear,"  she  says,  in  an  in- 
tensely wide-awake  voice. 

"  Are  you  awake  ?  " 

Mrs.  Quinby  laughed.  The  question  was  so  super- 
fluous. 

"  Oh,  well !  I  say,  Anna,  what  do  you  do  when  he 
won't  take  it  ?  " 

"  I  never  knew  such  a  thing  to  happen  in  all  my 
life  !  "  Mrs.  Quinby  was  standing  over  the  crib  by  the 
time  her  answer  had  reached  it,  and  she  hovered  over 
the  small  but  exhausted  conqueror  like  a  dove  with 
outstretched  wings. 


DISCIPLINE  AND  DEFEA  T.  81 

Mr.  Quinby  sighed  as  if  the  weight  of  a  world  had 
suddenly  been  lifted  from  his  shoulders,  and  was  won- 
dering if  he  would  be  derelict  to  his  duties  as  a  family 
man  if  he  should  go  to  -sleep  very  immediately.  He 
felt  extremely  sandy  about  the  eyes.  But  Anna 
promptly  settled  his  doubts  for  him. 

"  John !  he's  sick  !  Oh,  he's  terribly  sick !  Look,  it 
must  be  scarlet  fever.  See  those  monstrous  red 
blotches !  Who  knows  what  horrible  diseases  we 
traveled  with.  Oh,  John !  do  get  a  doctor  !  Oh  !  if 
mother  was  only  here.  I  knew  every  thing  would  go 
wrong  as  soon  as  I  brought  baby  away  from  her.  Old 
ladies  know  every  thing,  and  doctors  don't  know  any 
thing,"  said  Mrs.  Quinby,  sweepingly,  as  she  gathers 
the  storm-tossed  baby  into  her  lap  and  falls  to  weep- 
ing over  it  profusely,  "  and  to  think  how  we've  been 
torturing  him  to-night,  John." 

"  Don't,  Anna !  Don't  talk  that  way,"  says  Mr. 
Quinby,  with  the  remorse  of  a  convicted  criminal  in  his 
voice.  "  You  know  babies  have  to  have  a  variety  of 
things,  and  no  doubt  this  is  just  one  of  them."  He 
administers  this  vague  comfort  while  getting  into  his 
clothes  with  tremulous  haste.  "We'll  have  an  old 
lady  first,  and  then  all  the  doctors  in  town  if  need  be. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  it's  only  bed-bugs,"  he  says,  slapping 
his  hat  on  his  head  while  he  stoops  to  take  a  cursory 
glimpse  of  the  crimson  blotches  that  have  so  alarmed 
his  wife. 


82  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  Oh  !  John,  please  don't  be  so  stupid,  if  you  are  a 
man.  I  tell  you  something  dreadful  is  the  matter  with 
the  baby." 

And  it  is  with  these  last  words  of  his  wife's  on  his 
lips  that  Mr.  Quinby  stands  apologetically  in  Mrs. 
Laetitia  Shaw's  presence  a  few  minutes  later  on  beg- 
ging her  pardon  for  his  midnight  invasion.  "  But,"  he 
added,  in  that  winning  way  which  always  made  it  such 
a  pleasure  for  people  to  accommodate  him,  "  I  thought 
you  could  do  more  toward  relieving  the  anxiety  of  a 
young  mother  than  a  score  of  doctors,  and  if  I  can 
leave  you  with  Mrs.  Quinby  while  I  hunt  up  a  doctor, 
I  shall  be  so  very  glad." 

"We  had  better  see  if  a  doctor  is  needed,  first," 
says  the  bishop's  wife,  always  her  most  alert  self  when 
somebody  is  to  be  helped  out  of  trouble  of  some  sort; 
"  if  you'll  just  wait  three  minutes  I  will  be  ready  to  go 
with  you." 

The  three  minutes  seem  very  long  to  John,  standing 
there  in  the  dimly  lighted  hall  imagining  all  sorts  of 
horrible  possibilities  in  the  room  at  his  house;  but 
when  the  bishop's  wife  comes  back  to  him,  wrapping 
a  great  woolen  shawl  about  the  pretty  white  curls  that 
look  as  if  they  never  knew  disorder,  and  extends  a  lot 
of  bottles  for  him  to  carry,  his  spirits  go  up  with  sur- 
prising alacrity,  and  he  is  quite  sure  he  did  the  best 
thing  to  be  done  by  calling  in  Mrs.  Shaw. 

"  I  am  thinking,"  she  says,  panting  a  little,  but  keep- 


DISCIPLINE  AND  DEFEA  T.  83 

ing  step  with  his  long,  nervous  stride,  "  from  your  de- 
scription, that  it's  hives  and  nothing  worse." 

"  Hives  "  was  mystifyingly  suggestive  of  bees,  but  as 
Mr.  Quinby  was  smarting  under  a  sense  of  general  de- 
feat just  then,  he  did  not  care  to  invite  fresh  mortifica- 
tion by  acknowledging  to  ignorance  of  something  that 
perhaps  he  ought  to  have  known,  so  he  just  muttered : 
"  Let  us  hope  so,"  and  hurried  the  little  old  lady 
through  the  deserted  street  with  reckless  speed. 

"Anna,  I've  brought  a  friend  who  will  prove  quite 
as  knowing  as  Grandma  Abbott,  I'm  sure,"  he  says, 
presenting  Mrs.  Shaw  suddenly  before  his  wife  where 
she  sat  moaning  and  rocking  in  a  perfect  frenzy  of 
helpless  misery. 

One  look  up  into  the  sweet,  motherly  face  that  was 
brought  close  enough  for  Mrs.  Shaw  to  kiss  her  on  the 
forehead,  was  sufficient  to  inspire  Anna  with  confi- 
dence and  a  sense  of  relief.  The  women  smiled  into 
each  other's  eyes,  as  Anna  held  out  her  precious  bur- 
den and  motioned  Mrs.  Shaw  to  take  the  low  rocker 
she  had  just  risen  from. 

"  I'm  so  much  obliged  to  your  husband  for  think- 
ing of  me  first,"  says  the  bishop's  wife  ;  "  I  have  a 
much  better  opinion  of  myself  than  I  have  of  the 
doctors." 

And  while  she  began  her  examination  with  the  air 
of  an  expert,  Anna  took  in  every  particular  of  her  deli- 
cate, blue-veined  temples  and  hands,  her  bright  eyes 


84  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

full  of  benevolence,  and  the  gentle  face  that  seemed 
to  radiate  intelligence  and  sweetness. 

"  As  I  thought,"  Mrs.  Shaw  says,  presently,  with  her 
mouth  full  of  pins  that  she  has  garnered  from  the  baby, 
"  it's  nothing  in  the  world  but  hives." 

"  Hives !  And  what  on  earth  is  that,  or  are  those," 
for  the  mysterious  word  has  a  plural  sound,  and  Anna 
is  so  far  relieved  from  anxiety  that  she  can  afford 
to  be  grammatical. 

"An  irruption,  dear,  that  is  more  annoying  than 
alarming.  Babies  are  very  liable  to  it,  especially  in 
change  of  atmosphere.  We'll  soon  have  him  comfort- 
able. I'm  so  glad  you  weren't  foolish  enough  to  run 
after  a  doctor  the  first  thing."  She  nodded  approval  up 
at  John,  while  she  gently  soothed  the  angry  blotches 
with  a  lotion  from  one  of  the  bottles  she  had  brought, 
and  while  she  lulled  their  baby  to  sleep,  Mr.  Quinby 
and  his  wife  made  tremendous  strides  toward  adoring 
her. 

"  It  is  almost  as  good  as  having  mother  near  me," 
says  Anna,  giving  the  old  lady's  hand  a  little  supple- 
mentary squeeze,  after  they  have  stood  together  by 
the  crib,  to  make  sure  of  the  prospect  for  peace  at  last, 
and  Mrs.  Shaw  is  ready  to  be  taken  home  again. 

"  I  hope  you  will  always  think  so,  dear,  and  I  am 
very  much  obliged  to  baby  for  bringing  us  together  so 
promptly.  We  can  never  feel  like  strangers  after  to- 
night." 


DISCIPLINE  AND  DEFEA  T.  85 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Anna,  fervently,  following  them 
to  the  top  of  the  stairs  and  warning  her  not  to  stumble 
over  the  mat  at  the  bottom. 

"John,"  Mrs.  Quinby  rouses  herself  to  ask  as  her 
husband  once  more  settles  himself  among  the  pillows 
with  a  tired  sigh,  "  she  isn't,  she  can't  be,  not  that 
dear,  lovely-faced  old  lady  with  the  wise  eyes  and  the 
refined  hands,  can't  be  one  of  them  !  Is  she,  John?  " 

"One  of  what?" 

"Those  horrid  Mormons.'7 

"  She  is  the  wife  of  a  very  prominent  Mormon,  a 
particular  friend  of  mine.  Do  go  to  sleep,  Anna." 

"  The  wife  !     That  sounds  all  right.     I  am  so  glad." 

"  So  am  I,"  Mr.  Quinby  answers  with  drowsy  irrele- 
vance, in  allusion,  perhaps,  to  the  blessed  quietude  of 
the  room,  and  lapses  into  slumber,  unconscious  that  by 
the  use  of  a  definite  for  an  indefinite  article  he  has  in- 
volved his  wife  in  a  mesh  of  error  that  is  likely  to  prove 
misleading. 

And  the  bishop's  wife,  replacing  the  vials  of  medi- 
cine she  had  found  no  use  for  at  the  Quinby's  in  the 
medicine  chest  that  ornamented  her  bedroom  mantle- 
shelf,  was  conscious  of  a  mild  sort  of  dissatisfaction 
that  she  didn't  have  the  bishop  on  hand  to  discuss  with 
him  this  little  ripple  of  an  event.  But  it  was  the 
bishop's  week  with  class  number  three,  and  Mrs.  Lae- 
titia  Shaw  was  well  disciplined  in  patient  endurance. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

AN   IMPORTATION  .FROM   THE   SOUTH. 

UT  WONDER  why  Anna  Quinby  don't  write?"  Miss 

J.  Ambrose  said  one  morning,  coming  into  the 
dining-room  about  breakfast  time  and  finding  her  father 
reading  the  only  letter  that  had  been  left  by  the  carrier. 

"  Good-morning,  pet.  I  don't  know.  Too  much 
taken  up  with  John  yet  awhile  and  getting  her  bear- 
ings among  the  Saints.  Here's  something  curious." 

Dr.  Ambrose  answers  all  in  one  breath,  holding  out 
in  his  left  hand  an  open  letter  which  he  did  not  offer 
to  relinquish,  however,  while  with  his  right  he  screwed 
his  black  silk  skull  cap  around  until  the  tassel  of  it 
rested  confidingly  over  one  temple.  A  sure  sign  of 
perturbation  with  the  doctor. 

Effie  gravely  surveyed  the  fluttering  piece  of  paper, 
which  contained  only  two  or  three  lines  of  writing. 

"  Curious  ?  It  looks  like  very  ordinary  paper  and 
common  ink  with  some  unusually  neat  writing  on  it." 

"  It  is  good  writing,"  says  the  doctor,  looking  at  the 
letter  again  over  his  spectacles  ;  "  but  the  contents  ! 
That's  the  curious  part  of  it.  It's  from  Ferd  Cosgrove's 
son.  His  name,  the  son's  I  mean,  is,"  referring  to  the 


A  AT  IMPORT  A  TION  FROM  THE  SOUTH.  87 

letter  again,  "  Ferd,  too,  by  the  way.  I  see  he  signs  it 
Ferd,  Jun." 

"  An  abbreviation  of  Ferdinand,  I  suppose,"  says 
Miss  Ambrose  in  a  tone  that,  condemns  abbreviations 
in  general.  They  smacked  of  slovenliness  in  nomen- 
clature, and  the  doctor's  daughter  was  a  foe  to  slovenli- 
ness in  any  thing. 

"Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure.  But  see  here,  Effie,  the  boy 
will  be  here  by  the  11.30  train,  and  I,  oh  !  by  George, 
it  is  altogether  very  remarkable."  The  doctor's  cap 
pirouetted  until  the  tassel  reached  the  other  temple, 
and  he  stared  at  his  daughter  in  that  helplessly  appeal- 
ing fashion  in  which  the  strongest  men  indulge  in 
emergencies  where  quick-wittedness  is  demanded  to 
rescue  slow  judgment  from  a  snarl. 

"  Suppose  you  read  your  letter  aloud,  father,  or  let 
me  read  it,  and  then  I  can  have  a  clearer  understand- 
ing of  what  seems  to  be  worrying  you  considerably." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  you  will,"  says  the  doctor, 
moving  away  toward  the  breakfast  table,  where  the 
beefsteak  has  just  been  located  in  front  of  his  plate ; 
"  there's  precious  little  in  this  letter.  It's  from  Ferd 
Cosgrove's  son.  You  know  he  and  I,  Ferd  senior,  I 
mean,  went  to  college  together.  He's  a  Mississippi 
boy,  from  somewhere  in  Sunflower  County,  and  can't 
be  more  than  twenty-six  or  seven  at  furthest.  I've 
never  seen  him  since  we  parted  at  Cambridge — old 
Ferd  I  mean — excepting  for  an  hour  or  two,  when  we 


88  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

happened  to  cross  each  other  at  Washington  City,  he 
going  north  and  I  south ;  it  was  when  I  took  your 
poor  dear  mother  to  Florida  for  her  health  ;  and  here 
he  turns  up  in  the  most  sudden  and  unexplained  man- 
ner— young  Ferd  I  mean — saying"  (the  doctor  laid 
down  the  carving  knife  which  he  had  been  clashing 
fiercely  across  the  sharpener  during  this  preliminary 
explanation  and  took  up  the  disturbing  letter  once 
more)  "  '  My  dear  sir, — I  reached  New  York  last  night, 
and  hope  to  be  with  you  by  noon  to-morrow  at  furthest. 
Will  start  for  Elizabeth  by  the  1 1.30  train.  My  father's 
explanation  of  his  wishes  and  my  intentions  were  so 
explicit  that  nothing  remains  to  be  said  until  we  meet 
in  person.'" 

"  And  what  is  his  father's  explanation  ?  " 
"  Hanged  if  I  know !  This  is  the  first  atom  of 
information  I've  had  concerning  a  Cosgrove  since  Ferd 
and  I,  old  Ferd  of  course  I  mean,  met  as  I  told  you  at 
Washington.  Then  our  talk  was  very  hurried  and 
discursive.  I  do  remember  his  blowing  extensively 
about  the  talents  of  his  only  son,  and  he  said  he 
wanted  to  make  a  doctor  of  him  when  he  was  old 
enough,  and  I  remember  I  said,  '  Well,  send  him  on  to 
me  when  you  want  him  licked  into  shape ;  '  but  that 
was  ten  years  ago,  and  all  in  fun  at  that." 

"  Well,  the  time  has  come  for  licking  into  shape,  as 
you  call  it,  and  Mr.  Cosgrove  has  sent  his  talented  son 
on  to  you.  Of  course  he  wrote." 


AN  IMPORT  A  TION  FROM  THE  SOUTH.  89 

"  So  his  boy  says !  " 

"And  of  course  you  got  the  letter,  father!  I'll  ven- 
ture any  thing  it  is  in  your  pocket  at  this  moment, 
alongside  of  no  one  knows  how  many  others.  Oh  ! 
papa  ! " 

This  in  amazement  at  the  rapidly  increasing  pile  of 
papers,  in  a  more  or  less  crumpled  condition,  which 
Dr.  Ambrose  is  piling  up  on  both  sides  of  his  plate  as 
fast  as  he  can  empty  his  pockets  of  the  accumu- 
lation of  months.  She  got  up  and  brought  his  coffee 
to  him  with  a  view  of  helping  in  the  search. 

"  Miss  Effie  Ambrose  ! "  she  read  aloud,  in  tones  of 
mingled  reproach  and  triumph,  singling  a  letter  from 
the  pile  on  the  right  of  the  plate  while  the  doctor  is 
anxiously  scanning  those  on  the  other  side,  "and,"  with 
another  catlike  pounce,  "Dr.  John  Ambrose!  Here  it 
is,  you  careless,  careless  papa.  Post-marked,"  turning 
it  round  and  round,  "  the  dear  only  knows  what,  beside 
'  Miss./  that's  plain  enough.  And  it's  only  fifteen  days 
old.  Father,  this  is  shocking." 

"  It  is,  beyond  question,"  says  the  doctor,  disarming 
reproach  by  ready  concession,  while  he  stuffs  the  sur- 
plus papers  back  again  into  his  roomy  pockets.  "  Bless 
me  if  I  can  tell  how  such  a  thing  could  have  happened. 
I  am  very  particular  about  letters  as  a  general  thing. 
In  fact  I  don't  know  how  I  came  by  them  at  all.  Why 
weren't  they — yes,  I  do  too,  it  all  comes  back  to  me. 
It  was  just  as  I  was  going  out  at  the  gate  in  a  big  rain, 


go  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

and  I  met  the  carrier  and  took  them  to  save  him  a  few 
steps  to  the  door.  I  was  on  my  way  to  see  Watson's 
baby,  I  remember.  It  died,  you  know,  poor  little  chap, 
in  convulsions.  I  suppose  I  never  thought  of  'em 
from  that  moment  to  this.  I'm  sure  I'm  very  sorry, 
darling,  for  keeping  you  out  of  yours  so  long." 

"  It  don't  make  the  least  difference,"  says  Miss 
Ambrose,  whose  interest  has  fallen  to  zero  on  discover- 
ing the  Boston  post-mark  on  her  own  letter.  A  letter 
from  Utah  must  of  necessity  be  very  unlike  a  letter 
from  any  other  place  in  the  world.  She  was  surprised 
at  the  vitality  of  her  own  curiosity  in  this  direction. 
But  she  had  always  been  fond  of  Anna,  in  the  com- 
monplace Elizabeth  days,  and  now,  Anna  with  the 
possibilities  of  a  martyr's  crown  dimly  foreshadowed 
was  an  object  of  intensified  devotion  to  this  girl,  who, 
quite  unknown  to  herself,  was  suffering  from  a  sort  of 
heart  hunger  that  proclaimed  her  altogether  liable  to 
tremendous  vicissitudes  sooner  or  later.  She  poured 
her  own  coffee  out  and  sipped  it  silently  while  Doctor 
Ambrose  read  the  long  letter  from  Mr.  Cosgrove 
senior,  which  explained  the  short  one  of  Mr.  Cosgrove 
junior. 

"  Well !  no  great  harm  done  after  all,"  he  says 
finally,  looking  relieved,  as  he  puts  the  letter  back  in 
his  pocket  and  swallows  his  cold  coffee  in  several 
audible  gulps.  "  Ferd  says,"  tapping  the  pocket  that 
has  ingulfed  the  letter,  "that  it  would  soon  be  fol- 


AN  IMPORTATION  FROM  THE  SOUTH.  91 

lowed  by  his  son,  who  has  resolved,  with  his  entire 
approbation,  to  cut  loose  from  the  plantation  and  fit 
himself  for  a  professional  career.  He  wants  his  son  to 
study  medicine  under  me.  He  says,  he  is  but  poorly 
equipped  to  battle  with  the  world  and  hopes  I  will  keep 
him  as  near  me  as  possible.  That  he  will  need  to 
exercise  the  most  rigid  economy  and  is  prepared  to 
take  my  advice  in  any  matter  concerning  his  way  of 
living.  You  know,  those  people  are  all  desperately 
poor  since  the  war,  daughter.  He  comes,  young  Ferd 
I  mean,  from  a  plantation  where  he  has  spent  his  entire 
life." 

"  Of  course  he  is  peculiar,"  says  Miss  Ambrose,  pre- 
pared for  any  amount  of  eccentricity  on  the  part  of  a 
young  man  who  has  spent  his  entire  life  on  a  plantation 
in  that  dark  and  godless  region  of  the  country  known 
as  the  South. 

"  Why  so  ?  "  asks  Dr.  Ambrose,  who  is  absolutely 
without  sectional  prejudices. 

"  He-is  from  Mississippi,  isn't  he  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  And  you  say  his  entire  life  has  been  spent  on  a 
plantation?" 

"Yes." 

"  Those  people  lead  very  queer  lives  at  best,  don't 
they,  father?  " 

"How?" 

"Oh!  I  don't  know  just  exactly,  but  I   remember 


92  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

Aunt  Priscilla  had  a  great  horror  of  all  of  them.  I've 
heard  her  tell  so  often  of  a  trip  she  made  down  the 
Mississippi  River  when  she  and  mamma  were  little  girls. 
It  must  have  been  just  terrible,  you  know.  And  I'm 
quite  sure  the  papers  are  always  teeming  with  some- 
thing awful  that  has  happened  down  there  where  the 
men  shoot  and  chew  and  ku-klux  and  are  just  horrid 
anyhow."  Miss  Ambrose  shuddered  as  the  vision  arose 
before  her,  of  being  brought  into  close  personal  contact 
with  the  exponent  of  all  these  local  vices. 

"  Who  has  crammed  you  with  such  confounded  non- 
sense, child  ?  "  Dr.  Ambrose  looks  his  very  angriest  as 
he  asks  this. 

"  I  am  sure  I've  gotten  hold  of  a  general  impression 
of  that  sort  somehow  or  other." 

" '  General  impressions  '  which  are  '  gotten  hold  of 
somehow'  are  apt  to  prove  very  accurate,  no  doubt," 
says  the  doctor,  waxing  sarcastic  in  his  wrath,  "  but  it 
is  not  very  difficult  to  trace  your  ignorant  prejudices  to 
their  source.  Your  Aunt  Priscilla  was  one  of  the 
earliest  women  movers  in  the  abolition  excitement. 
Not  that  I'm  charging  that  against  her.  But  I'll  be 
hanged  if  the  more  earnest  a  genuinely  good  woman 
gets  in  one  direction,  the  more  bitterly  antagonistic  she 
doesn't  get  in  another.  And  the  abolitionist  women, 
saintly  fanatics,  as  they  were,  were  incapable  of  taking 
very  broad  views  of  any  subject,  and  nursed  their  sym- 
pathies for  the  slaves  with  such  one-sided  vigor,  that 


AN  IMPORTATION  FROM  THE  SOUTH.  93 

they  came  to  regard  it  as  a  religious  duty  to  malign  and 
blacken  the  reputation  of  the  masters  until  the  devil 
himself  would  hesitate  about  offering  them  hospitality. 
But  you  and  I,  my  pet,  are  not  going  to  open  that  old 
quarrel.  The  slaves  are  free,  thank  God,  but  the  men 
who  fought  for  what  they  thought  was  right  have 
bitten  the  dust  in  humiliation.  Far  be  it  from  us  to 
plant  one  more  thorn  in  the  crown  they've  worn  so 
long.  This  young  fellow  comes  to  us  almost  as  an 
exile.  We'll  just  remember,  won't  we,  daughter,  that 
he  is  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  and  forget  everything 
else?  I'm  going  to  drive  out  to  Bridge's  this  morning. 
His  wife's  down  again.  I'll  manage  to  get  back  in 
time  to  bring  Cosgrove  up  from  the  depot  with  me." 

"  How  will  you  know  this  young  man  from  any  body 
else?"  Effie  asks  practically,  when  her  father  comes 
back  into  the  dining-room  after  exchanging  his  slippers 
and  skull-cap  for  his  shoes  and  tall,  stiff  hat  in  which  he 
did  professional  penance  for  his  slippered  ease.  "  He 
has  your  address.  You  had  best  let  him  find  his  own 
way  up  here." 

"  That  would  look  sorter  chilling,  you  know.  I'll  trust 
my  intuitions  for  picking  a  Southern  boy  out  of  a  New 
York  crowd.  It's  as  easy  as  picking  a  black  bean  out 
of  a  pan  full  of  white  ones.  Then  he's  Ferd's  son, 
and  there's  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  to  make  him  wel- 
come. Ferd,  old  Ferd  I  mean,  was  a  jolly  good  dog, 
if  he  did  go  astray  on  the  secession  question.  We 


94  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

chummed  it  for  four  years  at  college  in  the  same  room. 
I  guess  this  boy  has  had  something  of  a  hard  tussle  to 
get  any  education." 

"  I  doubt  if  he  has  any,"  not  heartlessly,  simply  true 
to  her  convictions  that  an  altogether  abnormal  moral 
and  mental  condition  of  affairs  held  down  South.  She 
kissed  her  father  in  a  perfunctory  fashion,  and  closing 
the  front  door  on  his  retreating  form,  went  to  the 
library  that  constituted  the  right  wing  of  the  old  house, 
where  she  was  soon  absorbed  in  what  she  called  her 
morning  duties. 

These  consisted  in  reading  a  chapter  in  the  Old  and 
New  Testament  according  to  the  table  of  lessons  for  the 
month  as  laid  down  in  the  book  of  common  prayer, 
after  which  so  many  pages  of  Carlyle's  Frederick  the 
Great,  and,  in  lighter  vein,  a  few  problems  in  trigonom- 
etry were  studied  out.  Her  Aunt  Priscilla  had  always 
contended  for  mathematics  as  the  best  discipline  for 
the  mind  that  one  could  possibly  be  under,  and  poor 
Effie,  vaguely  conscious  of  a  sense  of  insufficiency  in 
her  life  as  it  was,  sought,  in  more  perfect  discipline  of 
her  faculties,  surcease  from  the  spirit  of  restlessness 
that  haunted  her  through  all  the  lonely  hours  that  her 
father's  absence  entailed  upon  her. 

"  I  am  no  better  than  an  aimless  child,"  she  sighed  in 
bitterness  of  spirit  this  morning,  turning  unrefreshed 
from  the  self-imposed  tasks  that  had  filled  the  morning 
hours  for  her,  if  they  had  not  supplied  any  higher  inner 


AN  IMPORTATION  FROM  THE  SOUTH.  95 

need.  "Surely  I  must  be  a  poor  bit  of  mechanism. 
The  life  that  satisfied  every  need  of  dear  Aunt  Pris- 
cilla's  soul  leaves  me  dry  and  parched  with  thirst.  But 
then,  hers  was  a  grand  soul,  attuned  to  grand  issues. 
She  lived  for  others.  She  lived  to  free  the  enslaved ! 
and  she  died  triumphant !  while  I !  ah,  me!  I  cumber 
the  earth !  " 

In  her  enthusiasm  over  the  aunt  whose  strong  per- 
sonality had  dominated  her  own  most  susceptible  years, 
Miss  Ambrose  never  stopped  to  inquire  how  infini- 
tesimally  small  that  lady's  influence  had  been  in  bring- 
ing about  the  stupendous  fact  of  emancipation.  On  the 
contrary,  in  her  fond  idolatry  she  was  rather  inclined  to 
exalt  the  said  Boston  spinster  into  the  triumphant  god- 
dess of  liberty,  or  the  heroic  exponent  of  the  idea  that 
had  carried  peace  and  joy  to  four  million  of  sable  hearts. 
And  not  seldom,  when  she  closed  the  books  that  were, 
after  all,  such  unsatisfying  companions  for  a  fresh 
young  life,  she  found  herself  wondering  enviously  if  her 
opportunity  would  ever  come  to  her  unsought,  as  it 
had  come  to  her  Aunt  Priscilla. 

That  our  golden  opportunity  often  lies  so  close  to 
us  that  our  far-reaching  eyes  fail  to  note  it,  was  a 
truism  that  had  not  yet  presented  itself  to  the  doc- 
tor's daughter. 

The  sound  of  a  sudden  rainfall  that  came  dashing 
against  the  window  glass  in  big,  noisy  drops  made  her 
look  away  from  the  open  trigonometry  in  her  lap 


96  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

toward  the  street.  She  wondered  if  her  father  had 
gone  prepared  for  this  caprice  of  the  elements,  and 
wished  she  had  thought  to  remind  him  of  his  water- 
proof. He  was  so  careless  about  himself,  so  careful 
for  others.  There  went  a  foolish  man  now,  holding 
his  unsheltered  hat  well  down  against  the  big  patter- 
ing drops  with  one  hand,  while  the  other  clasped  the 
lapels  of  his  unbuttoned  coat  over  his  breast.  The 
listless  interest  inspired  by  this  rain-drenched  walker 
received  no  accession  from  his  sudden  stoppage  at  her 
own  gate,  which  he  opened,  after  a  quick,  upward 
glance  at  the  door,  and  cleared  the  narrow  space  be- 
tween him  and  shelter  at  a  half-dozen  amazingly  long 
strides. 

Long-legged  people  and  short-legged  people,  people 
of  all  sorts  and  conditions,  were  continually  making 
pilgrimages  through  that  gate  to  her  father's  office  in 
the  wing  of  the  house,  so  Miss  Ambrose  was  well 
back  into  her  problem  when  her  studious  vein  was 
once  more  interrupted  by  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Come  !  "  she  drawled  the  monosyllable  languidly, 
and  looked  up  with  a  pencil  in  hand  to  hear  what 
Maurice  had  to  say. 

"  There's  a  young  man  in  the  doctor's  office  that 
give  me  this  card,  miss,  for  your  pa,"  says  Maurice, 
extending  his  .lacquer-ware  tray  with  a  visiting-card  on 
it,  "and  he  says  he'll  wait  till  the  doctor  comes  in." 

"  Well,  what  have  I   to  do  with  that  ? "   Miss  Am- 


AN  IMPORTATION  FROM  THE  SOUTH.  97 

brose  asks,  not  offering  to  take  the  card ;  "  I  suppose 
it's  some  patient  of  my  father's." 

"  No'm,  I  don't  think  he  be,"  says  Maurice,  looking 
down  on  the  bit  of  paste-board  on  his  tray,  as  i^he 
would  like  very  much  to  question  it  ;  "  he  looks  too 
sorter  healthy  to  have  any  needs  for  a  doctor.  He's  a 
stranger  to  these  parts,  I  take  it.  He  says  his  train 
was  a  little  ahead  of  time,  or  he  reckons — that's  the 
word — the  doctor  would  'a'  been  on  hand." 

"  Let  me  have  the  card,"  says  Effie,  quickly  for  her, 
laying  her  pencil  down  on  the  open  book.  Maurice 
extends  his  tray  with  relieved  alacrity.  Miss  Ambrose 
reads  on  it,  penciled  in  good,  clear  characters,  "  F. 
Cosgrove,  Jun." 

"  It's  all  right,  Maurice,  my  father  is  expecting  this 
gentleman.  You  can  tell  him  Dr.  Ambrose  rode  to  the 
depot  to  meet  him,  and — 

"  That's  the  doctor  now  a-stampin'  the  water  out  of 
his  feet,"  says  Maurice,  as  a  vigorous  sound  of  foot- 
stamping  comes  to  their  ears,  and  Effie  goes  out  to 
meet  him  with  the  card  in  her  hand. 

"  You  missed  your  black  bean  after  all,"  she  says, 
lowering  her  voice  against  all  possibility  of  its  pene- 
trating to  the  stranger's  ears. 

"  Yes.  He  didn't  come.  There  wasn't  but  four 
passengers  got  out  at  this  station.  Two  old  women, 
Henry  Colton,  and  a  long-legged,  thin-faced  chap  that 
looked  as  if  he  might  have  been  raised  on  a  down- 


98  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

east  farm,  where  they  never  ate  any  thing  but  pump- 
kins." 

Effie  displayed  Mr.  Cosgrove's  card  and  laughed. 
HeTfather's  acumen  in  tracing  inherited  physiognomy 
was  evidently  at  fault. 

"  Where  did  you  get  this  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Cosgrove  is  in  your  office,"  she  said,  "  and  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  the  poor  young  man  is  sitting  there 
in  moist  misery.  The  rain  was  pouring  down,  and  he 
had  no  umbrella." 

"  Bless  my  soul,"  says  Dr.  Ambrose,  making  shuf- 
fling haste  along  the  passage-way  toward  his  office, 
"  it  does  look  as  if  I  was  determined  to  cold-water  that 
young  man." 

"  With  the  assistance  of  the  elements,"  says  Effie, 
going  with  him  as  far  as  the  foot  of  the  stairs  that 
took  upward  flight  near  the  back  door.  "  I  will  see 
you  and  your  friend  at  luncheon,"  she  adds,  waving 
her  hand  to  her  father  as  he  disappeared  through  a 
side  door,  and  bursts  violently  in  upon  Mr.  Ferdinand 
Cosgrove,  Junior,  where  he  stands  coolly  drying  his 
dampened  legs  before  the  doctor's  stove,  reading  the 
while  a  book  he  has  taken  from  the  shelves  with  an 
absorption  of  interest  that  has  made  him  forget  how 
long  he  has  been  kept  waiting  for  the  cordial  welcome 
his  father  had  guaranteed  him  before  he  had  left  the 
plantation,  saying — 

"  Things  have  changed  up  North,  Ferd,  no  doubt, 


AN  IMPORTATION  FROM  THE  SOUTH.  99 

tremendously,  since  I  was  a  rich  young  college  fellow, 
with  the  world  in  a  sling;  but  there's  one  thing  up 
there  that  can't  change,  any  more  than  true  gold  can 
be  changed  into  any  baser  metal,  and  that  one  thing 
is  John  Ambrose's  heart.  God  bless  him  !  " 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SNAP  JUDGMENT. 

* '  ff^HIS  young  fellow  comes  to  us  almost  as  an  exile. 
J_  We'll  just  remember,  won't  we,  daughter,  that 
he  is  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land  and  forget  every  thing 
else  ?  " 

These  words  of  her  father  haunted  Effie  long  after 
the  sound  of  his  creaking  shoes  (the  doctor's  shoes 
were  chronically  afflicted  that  way),  carrying  him  over 
the  oil-clothed  hall  in  apologetic  haste,  had  died  away 
in  the  distance  and  been  superseded  by  muffled  voices 
in  conversation  that  penetrated  at  intervals  through  the 
ceiling  and  carpet,  punctuated  occasionally  by  a  rollick- 
ing laugh  from  the  doctor. 

"  They  seem  to  find  plenty  to  say  to  each  other,"  she 
says,  carefully  folding  up  her  sewing,  as  the  clock  struck 
one,  and  taking  a  brief  survey  of  herself  in  the  looking- 
glass  before  going  down  to  luncheon.  It  was  a  sweet, 
serious  face  reflected  back  at  her,  with  a  broad,  serene 
forehead  from  which  all  such  frivolities  as  bangs,  curls, 
or  even  wavelets,  were  religiously  excluded.  Smoothly 
parted,  on  either  side  her  brown  hair  was  severely  out- 


SNAP  JUDGMENT.  101 

lined  against  the  white  of  temple  and  brow  ;  "  of  course 
he's  peculiar ;  but,  as  dear  good  father  says,  these  people 
have  suffered  terribly  for  their  sins  and  it  is  the  part  of 
charity  to  judge  them  leniently  and  treat  them  kindly," 
with  which  mis-quotation,  she  left  her  own  room  fully 
prepared  to  overwhelm  Mr.  Cosgrove  with  the  gracious- 
ness  of  her  reception.  It  was  a  bit  of  unconscious  diplo- 
macy on  the  doctor's  part,  enlisting  her  pity  for  his  pro- 
tege. For  Miss  Ambrose  dearly  loved  to  be  magnani- 
mous. This  young  man  had,  innocently  perhaps,  but 
none  the  less  really,  partaken  of  the  crime  of  slave-hold- 
ing, but  as  he  had  voluntarily  come  out  from  that  land 
of  moral  turpitude,  whose  dark  boundaries  she  auto- 
cratically traced  on  Mason  and  Dixon's  line,  he  should 
be  treated  with  that  gentle  consideration  due  all  con- 
fessed prodigals  ;  of  course,  there  would  be  a  great  deal 
to  shock  one's  finer  sensibilities  in  associating  with  a 
young  man  whose  best  must  be  very  poor  indeed,  but 
then,  she  hoped  Aunt  Priscilla's  broad  teachings  had  not 
been  so  thrown  away  on  her  that  she  expected  to 
measure  every  body's  corn  in  her  own  bushel  measure. 
The  sight  of  a  very  broad-rimmed,  soft-felt  hat,  bound 
about  with  a  somewhat  dingy  ribbon,  hanging  on  the 
hall-rack  close  by  her  father's  tall  silk  hat,  sent  a  throb 
of  generous  pity  through  her  heart  (which  was  not 
cold,  only  empty). 

"  How  dreadfully  poor  a  man  must  be,"  she  said.,  "  to 
wear  such  a  hat,  and  how  courageous  too,"  but   she 


102  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

recoiled  a  little  at  the  horrible  prospect  of  finding 
the  whole  man  in  keeping  with  that  dissolute  looking 
hat ;  "  if  it  only  had  a  stiff  rim,"  she  sighed,  looking  with 
disapproval  at  the  broad,  limp  brim,  "  it  would  look  less 
reckless.  What  a  trial  if  he  should  want  to  go  to  church 
with  us  to-morrow;  I'm  positive  the  faintest  zephyr 
would  set  that  brim  oscillating.  It  really  looks  brigand- 
ish  !  I  wonder  if  he  does  too."  It  was  with  expecta- 
tion at  its  lowest  ebb  that  she  opened  the  dining-room 
door  and  found  herself  in  the  presence  of  the  two  men, 
who  had  answered  the  luncheon  bell  much  more 
promptly  than  she  had.  They  were  standing  on  the 
hearth  rug  waiting  for  her  with  a  fair  outward  show  of 
patience.  Two  strongly  contrasting  forms  and  faces. 
Young  Cosgrove,  tall,  thin,  with  a  certain  amount  of 
supple  grace  about  him  that  seemed  altogether  dis- 
proportioned  to  the  length  of  his  legs,  was  leaning 
against  the  mantle  with  both  hands  in  his  trowsers'  pock- 
ets, while  he  looked  down  into  the  doctor's  face  and 
gave  his  best  attention  to  a  rather  long-winded  story 
of  something  his  father  and  his  father's  chum  had  done 
in  the  days  gone  by  before  his  birth.  It  was  a  thin, 
brown  face,  lighted  up  by  a  pair  of  uncommonly  intelli- 
gent eyes,  that  the  doctor  was  looking  up  into,  eyes 
which,  discovering  the  young  lady's  presence  before  her 
father  did,  left  the  doctor's  beaming  face  and  calmly 
rested  on  that  of  his  approaching  hostess. 

"  Ah  !  My  daughter,  Miss  Ambrose,  Ferd— Mr.  Cos- 


SNA P  JUD GMEN T.  1 03 

grove,  I  should  say,  but  Ferd  slips  off  the  end  of  my 
tongue  so  naturally.  Effie,  you've  often  heard  me  speak 
of  this  young  man's  father,  my  chum,  old  Ferd,  I  mean," 
says  the  doctor  all  in  one  breath,  purposely  making  his 
introduction  very  verbose  in  view  of  the  fact  that  he 
had,  so  far,  no  intimation  of  what  line  of  conduct  his 
daughter  had  mapped  out  for  herself  in  connection  with 
this  ex-rebel,  and  in  case  of  embarrassment  an  avalanche 
of  words  might  serve  as  a  sort  of  bridge  to  cross  the 
chasm  on.  But  there  was  no  embarrassment  and  no 
chasm.  Mr.  Cosgrove  extended  his  hand  quite  as  a 
matter  of  course.  Effie  accepted  it,  condoning  the  lack 
of  good  form  in  view  of  the  Mississippian's  previous 
advantages  or  lack  of  them. 

She  had  entered  the  room  laudably  bent  upon 
making  her  father's  guest  feel  quite  at  his  ease,  but  if 
he  were  not  already  so  he  must  be  a  prince  of  counter- 
feiters. She  quite  prided  herself  on  her  abstract  sense 
of  justice  and  was  prepared  to  retract  the  obnoxious 
adjective  "  peculiar  "  so  soon  as  it  should  be  proven 
misapplied.  She  was  slightly  disconcerted  at  the 
young  man's  placid  inspection  of  her.  Peculiar  seemed 
to  fit  him  more  snugly  than  ever.  Far  be  it  from  her 
to  expect  a  man's  manners  and  his  coat  to  be  gauged 
one  by  the  other,  but  the  peculiarity  of  this  young 
man  lay  in  his  seeming  ignorance  of  the  fact  that 
Maurice,  who  opened  the  door  for  him,  and  who  was 
then  officiating  at  the  lunch  table,  was  vastly  better 


104  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

dressed  than  himself.  Maurice,  who  was  only  part 
white,  would  have,  scorned  to  wear  that  blue  coat, 
grown  whitish  about  the  seams  and  shiny  about  the 
buttons,  and  that  did  not  accord  with  the  striped 
trowsers  that  puffed  so  at  the  knees  with  pathetic  sug- 
gestions of  having  been  worn  a  very  long  time ! 
Maurice  would  never  have  been  caught  in  a  turn-down 
collar  with  a  narrow  silk  tie  "slightly  awry,  years  after 
standing  collars  and  scarfs  were  considered  the 
admissible  things  !  She  would  have  approved  alto- 
gether of  this  sublimated  serenity  under  so  much 
shabbiness  if  it  had  seemed  to  spring  from  heroic 
endurance,  but  she  was  afraid;  from  the  airy  uncon- 
sciousness of  the  young  man,  that  he  really  did  not 
know  when  a  person  was  well  dressed.  He  didn't  look 
at  all  like  a  man  who  was  expiating  the  sins  of  his 
fathers  in  a  shabby  coat  and  disreputable  trowsers. 
His  manners  were  quietly  composed,  without  lapsing 
into  indifference,  and  when  he  had  any  thing  to  say — for 
Doctor  Ambrose,  with  the  garrulity  of  age,  was  some- 
thing of  a  monopolist — he  said  it  a  little  verbosely 
(quaintly,  Effie  called  it),  as  a  man  says  things  who  has 
never  been  under  the  necessity  of  hurrying  through 
any  thing;  but  there  were  none  of  those  lapses  into 
plantation  dialect  nor  reckless  disregard  for  grammar 
that  she  had  supposed  must  distinguish  all  Southerners 
from  more  fortunate  people. 
She  was  glad  that  her  father's  full  flow  of  reminis- 


SNAP  JUDGMENT.  105 

cence  claimed  the  attention  of  the  young  man  so 
entirely  that,  as  he  sat  at  the  side  of  the  table,  with  his 
eyes  turned  toward  the  doctor,  she  could  satisfy  her 
curiosity  concerning  him  fully,  if  a  trifle  furtively. 
She  brought  to  bear  upon  this  furtive  examination  the 
intense  interest  always  excited  by  the  first  view  of  any 
species  of  animal  of  which  one  has  heard  a  great  deal, 
but  with  which  one  has  never  come  in  direct  contact. 
ThisyoungMississippian,  with  his  brown  cheeks,  straight, 
dark  hair,  combed  smoothly  behind  a  pair  of  rather 
prominent  ears ;  with  his  long,  brown  mustache  nearly 
hiding  a  mouth  of  womanish  sensibility ;  with  his 
superfluity  of  neck  held  well  up  above  that  distress- 
ingly obsolete  collar ;  with  his  long,  nervous,  brown 
fingers  that  kept  his  napkin  ring  in  perpetual  motion, 
while  he  listened  or  when  he  spoke,  belonged  to  a  type 
that  had  been  held  up  for  criticism  and  condemnation 
in  her  hearing  from  the  earliest  years  of  her  life. 

"  How  very  different,  in  every  particular,  from  the 
young  men  one  sees  every  day  in  Elizabeth,"  was  her 
mental  verdict  on  the  physical  man,  which  may  have 
been  in  Mr.  Cosgrove's  favor  and  may  not  have  been. 
She  started  guiltily  when  her  father,  swerving  from  one 
subject  to  the  other  with  the  suddenness  that  was 
habitual  with  him,  suddenly  addressed  himself  to  her. 

"Well,  Miss  Ambrose,  what  do  you  say  to  taking 
another  male  under  your  protection  ?  Ferd  and  I  have 
arranged  every  thing  to  suit  ourselves,  and— 


io6  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"Pardon  me  the  interruption,  my  good  sir,  but  I 
can  not  permit  you  to  say  that  any  thing  has  been 
arranged  without  consulting  Miss  Ambrose.  That  I 
appreciate  your  kind  offer  and  would  gladly  avail 
myself  of  it,  if  your  daughter  fully  approves,  is  the 
more  correct  way  of  stating  it." 

"  Oh  !  of  course,  of  course,"  says  the  doctor,  starting 
off  more  briskly  than  ever  after  this  interruption,  "  but 
there's  no  manner  of  reason  in  thinking  about  any 
other  arrangement.  We've  got  a  big  house  here. 
Room  for  a  dozen  instead  of  two.  And  here's  Ferd," 
addressing  himself  to  Effie,  "  who's  come  all  the  way 
from  Mississippi  to  study  medicine  with  me;  don't 
know  a  soul  this  side  the  line.  Where's  the  sense  of  his 
knocking  about  in  cheap  boarding  houses  when  we've 
got  two  or  three  bedrooms  locked  up  ?  The  one  over 
the  library,  Pet,  with  the  morning  sun,  is  just  the  thing 
for  him  ;  and  then  of  nights,  when  I  want  to  smoke,  I 
need  not  have  to  shut  myself  up  like  a  prisoner  in 
solitary  confinement  or  run  the  risk  of  being  ordered 
out  of  your  room  with  the  gim-cracks.  She's  down  on 
smoke,  Ferd.  Excuse  me,  but  it  does  me  good  to 
mouth  the  old  name.  Not  that  you  look  at  all  like 
your  father,  there's  where  I  missed  it  this  morning  at 
the  depot.  Ferd,  old  Ferd,  I  mean,  has  red  hair,  white 
though  now,  I  guess — " 

"  None  at  all,  rather,"  Ferd  junior  says  smilingly. 

"  Bald  !     Hey  !     To  be  sure,  he's  not  been  standing 


SNAP  JUDGMENT.  107 

still  while  I've  been  growing  old.  And  blue  eyes.  I 
was  looking  out  for  Ferd's  broad  shoulders  and  short 
legs." 

"  I  believe  I  take  after  my  mother's  family." 

Effie  made  a  note  of  that  "  take  after,"  proposing 
further  on  to  see  if  its  use  was  warranted  by  any  good 
authority. 

"  And  so,"  says  the  doctor,  settling  every  thing  with 
a  final  sweep  of  his  napkin  across  his  lips,  "  we'll  tele- 
graph over  to  New  York  for  his  baggage,  and  make 
him  at  home." 

"  I  protest,"  began  Mr.  Cosgrove. 

"Against  what?"  Dr.  Ambrose  interrupts,  tartly. 

"  Against  your  having  taken  Miss  Ambrose  at  such 
a  decided  disadvantage.  By  laying  the  proposition 
before  her  in  this  way,  you  have  virtually  deprived  her 
of  all  power  of  veto." 

This  was  so  exactly  what  Miss  Ambrose  was  herself 
thinking,  that  she  blushed  furiously  and  denied  it 
mendaciously: 

"  I  am  sure  if  you  think  you  could  be  comfortable 
and  happy  in  such  a  monotonous  household  as  this,  I 
can  agree  with  father  that  it  would  be  a  good  arrange- 
ment. You  will  not  find  us  at  all  entertaining.  We 
are  both  very  busy  people,  and  correspondingly  dull 
company." 

"  I  hope  to  be  very  busy,  too,"  says  the  young  man, 
not  nearly  so  much  overcome  by  her  graciousness  as 


108  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

she  had  expected,  but  to  him,  fresh  from  the  larger 
handed  hospitality  of  his  section,  this  concession 
seemed  simply  a  display  of  ordinary  politeness  ;  "  and 
while  I  am  deeply  grateful  for  the  arrangement,  I 
should  be  sorry  to  have  you  feel  under  any  necessity  of 
entertaining  me.  I  have  come  North  impressed  with 
an  abiding  sense  of  the  necessity  of  making  both  edges 
cut  for  the  next  few  years.  I  have  nothing  to  fall  back 
upon.  The  old  place  is  pretty  well  worn  out,  and  is 
not  inviting  to  free  labor." 

"  You  don't  overflow,"  says  the  doctor,  whose 
knowledge  of  Mississippi  hills  and  Louisiana  swamps  is 
a  trifle  obscure. 

"  No.  That's  about  the  only  ill  we're  not  heir  to," 
says  Ferdinand,  with  a  ripple  of  careless  laughter, 
which  increases  Miss  Ambrose's  desire  to  know  what 
manner  of  man  this  is,  who  can  wear  shabby  clothes 
with  placid  indifference,  and  discuss  his  own  impov- 
erished condition  with  the  stoicism  that  is  generally 
reserved  for  the  misfortunes  of  one's  friends. 

"Well!  if  Miss  Ambrose  considers  the  arrangement 
made,  I  may  as  well  order  my  baggage  at  once,"  he 
says,  as  they  all  come  out  into  the  hall  together, 
and  he  stops  in  front  of  the  big  shabby  hat,  with  arm 
upraised. 

"  Do  so,"  says  the  doctor,  "or  stay,  Maurice  can  do 
it  just  as  well." 

"  But,  Miss  Ambrose  !  I  'm  waiting  for  her  orders." 


SNAP  JUDGMENT.  109 

"The  room  is  entirely  at  your  disposal,  and  I  hope 
you  will  be  very  comfortable  in  it,"  Effie  says,  a  trifle 
frigidly. 

"Thank  you,  I  don't  intend  to  be  in  your  way  any 
more  than  I  can  possibly  help.  I'm  to  be  the  doctor's 
cub  for  some  time  to  come,  and  hope  you  will  make 
use  of  me  in  any  capacity.  I'm  not  an  altogether  use- 
less limb.  And  I  am  thoroughly  grateful  for  this 
arrangement."  With  a  little  wave  of  the  broad 
brimmed  hat,  he  strode  out  of  the  gate  with  the  same 
long  swinging  stride  that  had  brought  him  in  out  of 
the  rain.  Effie  and  her  father  watched  him  out  of 
sight. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  him?"  the  doctor 
asked. 

"  I  think  he  is  peculiar." 

"  How?  Snap  judgments  are  unkind  and  unreliable. 
But  how  ?" 

"  Every  way.  He  seems  to  take  things  very  much 
as  a  matter  of  course,  even  his  poverty.  Has  he  always 
been  so  dreadfully  poor?" 

"  His  father  was  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  state 
when  the  war  broke  out,  and  this  boy  was  born  to  big 
expectations." 

"  He  doesn't  seem  to  care.  He  rather  makes  a  joke 
of  his  extremity." 

"  That's  not  for  us  to  say.  Those  people  have 
accepted  the  issue  like  men,  and  this  boy  is  proud 


1 10  THE  BAR-S1X1S  TER. 

enough  to  hide  his  scars ;  but  they  must  be  there, 
daughter,  they  must  be  there.  I'm  glad  you  were  so 
sweet  about  his  coming." 

"  I  didn't  know  that  you  gave  me  any  opportunity 
to  be  any  thing  else.  If  you  had  spoken  to  me  pri- 
vately, it  could  have  been  argued  for  and  against.? 

"  But  there  isn't  any  against.  It's  just  as  if  I  had  a 
partner." 

"  As  you  please,  father.  His  presence  will  be  noth- 
ing to  me.  If  he  is  in  earnest  about  his  profession  I 
shall  see  little  or  nothing  of  him  except  at  table.  Of 
course,  you  will  not  expect  me  to  alter  my  evenings  for 
him." 

"  You'll  find  him  earnest,"  says  the  doctor,  answering 
partially.  "  He  comes  of  earnest  stock.  With  all  his 
seeming  carelessness  he's  fire  and  brimstone  at  bottom. 
It's  in  his  eyes." 

"  How  very  uncomfortable!  I  hope  he  isn't  com- 
bustible. We  are  very  serene  here  at  present.  I  sup- 
pose it  wouldn't  be  safe  to  talk  as  if  there  had  been 
a  war,  or  a  colored  person,  or  any  thing  of  that  sort, 
you  know." 

And  while  he  is  being  so  freely  discussed,  Mr.  Cos- 
grove,  with  due  consideration  for  the  cost  of  every 
word,  is  telegraphing  home  after  telegraphing  for  his 
baggage. 

"Am  all  right.  Taken  into  bosom  of  family. 
Work  hard  !  Doctor  a  trump." 


CHAPTER  X. 

"SHALL  AULD  ACQUAINTANCE  BE  FORGOT?" 

T")ERHAPS  Mr.  Ferdinand  will  never  know  how 
J_  much  he  was  indebted  to  his  shabby  felt  hat,  his 
pathetically  thread-bare  coat  and  his  unconscious  pose 
as  martyr,  for  the  promptness  with  which  he  got  into 
Miss  Ambrose's  good  graces  and  was  treated  by  her 
with  a  sweet  cordiality  that  he  accepted  as  a  matter 
of  course,  while  her  father  marveled  greatly  thereat. 
All  the  girls  with  whom  the  young  man's  decidedly 
limited  experience  had  brought  him  in  contact  were 
cordial  and  friendly,  totally  unversed  in  those  stiff 
conventionalities  and  pointless  points  of  etiquette 
which  would  have  been  absurdly  misplaced  in  the  free 
and  easy  intercourse  of  one  plantation  with  another;"  so 
he  had  nothing  by  which  to  gauge  the  extent  of  the 
thaw  in  his  hostess's  icy  courtesy,  that  delighted  and 
amazed  her  father. 

He,  the  doctor,  was  secretly  conscious  of  his  own 
daring  and  the  unexpectedly  happy  results  therefrom. 
He  knew  that  if  he  had  so  introduced  a  spruce  young 
man,  with  short  clipped  hair,  with  wide-awake  audacity 
in  his  eyes,  a  dapper,  conventional  "  derby  "  on  his 


112  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

head  and  fashionable  tweed  on  his  back,  into  the  bosom 
of  his  family  as  unceremoniously  as  he  had  introduced 
this  young  exile  from  Dixie,  he  would  have  run  the  risk 
of  being  severely  and  persistently  snubbed  for  his  hasty 
philanthropy,  and  life  would  have  been  made  a  burden 
to  the  recipient  of  it ;  for  the  average  young  man  with 
his  monotony  of  physique  and  dress,  his  hueless  mind 
and  flavorless  experience  was  an  object  of  especial  dis- 
like to  his  daughter,  to  whom  Cosgrove,  with  his  store 
of  tragic  memories,  his  quaint  acceptance  of  a  lot  of 
poverty  and  deprivation,  such  as  had  never  come  with- 
in her  well-sheltered  sphere  of  observation,  his  unre- 
served indorsement  of  the  issues  of  the  war,  and 
his  quaintly  humorous  acknowledgment  of  complete 
defeat,  assumed  the  proportions  of  a  psychological 
study ;  a  study  which  she  pursued  with  all  the  more 
eagerness  when  she  found  out,  contrary  to  her  expect- 
ations, that  he  was  not  at  all  averse  to  talking  about 
things  as  they  were,  or  had  been,  or  might  possibly  yet 
be  in  that  "  dark  land,  the  South,"  a  spot  which  her 
imagination  had  always  peopled  with  a  race  of  men 
lineally  descended  from  the  ogres  and  the  earth-demons 
of  the  dark  ages.  Perhaps  (it  dawned  upon  her)  she 
had  not  been  doing  these  slave-holding  people  full  jus- 
tice all  these  years.  Perhaps  Aunt  Priscilla's  very 
rigid  views  concerning  them  and  their  iniquities  (the 
correctness  of  which  views  she  had  never  dreamed  of 
questioning)  might  have  been  a  trifle  over-done.  Per- 


' '  SHALL  A  ULD  A CQ UAINTANCE  BE  FORGO T?"     113 

haps,  like  another  historical  personage,  between  whom 
and  the  slave-holder  of  the  South  there  was  doubtless 
much  in  common,  he  may  have  been  painted  blacker 
than  he  was.  She  resolved  that  it  was  her  duty  to  give 
unbiased  heed  (or  as  unbiased  as  possible)  to  all  the 
young  man  had  to  tell,  for  there  was  no  withholding  cre- 
dence from  the  simple  testimony  he  bore  to  the  heroic 
lives  and  patient  endurance  of  the  people  to  whom  he 
belonged.  Not  eager  or  querulous  testimony,  nor 
given  with  importunate  eagerness  to  excite  sympathy, 
only  manfully  and  modestly  when  asked  to  do  so.  The 
acme  of  interest  and  curiosity  on  her  part  was  reached 
one  evening  when  Cosgrove  had  been  with  them  some 
months,  and  had  made  himself  quietly  entertaining  in 
a  descriptive  vein  over  the  dessert  and  coffee.  Dr. 
Ambrose  had  made  an  abrupt  move  to  leave  the  dinner 
table  on  account  of  the  heat. 

"  We  can  finish  our  talk  in  the  office,  Ferd,  over  our 
cigars,  daughter  will  excuse  us  ;  "  then  the  two  men 
had  gone  one  way  and  she  another,  as  usual,  they  to 
defile  and  befog  the  atmosphere  of  the  doctor's  office 
with  cigar  smoke,  she  to  sit  in  dignified  and  unsmoked 
loneliness  in  the  sacred  alcove  where  Ferd  had  never 
yet  penetrated,  catching  only  fleeting  and  suggestive 
hints  of  its  splendor  as  he  passed  the  drawn  portiere  to 
and  from  the  dining-room. 

But  on  this  occasion  Miss  Ambrose  found  the  con- 
templation of  her  pretty  but  familiar  surroundings 


114  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

cruelly  inadequate  to  her  entertainment.  Neither 
plaque  nor  picture  nor  book-shelf  could  win  one  glance 
of  approval  from  the  serious  eyes  that  were  fixed 
abstractedly  on  the  soft,  fluffy  rug  under  her  feet  while 
she  meditated  a  very  daring  step.  With  a  sudden 
resolve  that  sent  a  soft  flush  slowly  up  from  cheek  to 
brow,  she  gathered  into  her  arms  a  brilliant  hued  pile 
of  wool  pierced  with  two  long  ivory  needles,  and 
swooped  down  upon  the  two  men  where  they  sat  in 
wordless  content  over  their  cigars. 

"  You  were  going  to  tell  us  about  your  church  going, 
when  father  walked  off  with  you,"  she  said,  scorning  a 
false  plea  for  her  unprecedented  intrusion.  "  I  should 
so  like  to  have  you  go  on." 

She  smiled  a  little  uneasily  as  the  Mississippian 
sprang  to  his  feet  on  her  entrance  and  stood  courte- 
ously with  his  hand  on  the  back  of  his  chair,  while  she 
settled  herself  into  the  big  upholstered  affair  that  was 
planted  immovably  under  the  drop  light.  This  young 
man  always  made  it  seem  such  a  momentous  affair 
for  her  to  come  into  the  room ;  it  was  really  discom- 
forting. She  was  afraid  he  was  a  trifle  obsolete. 

Ferd  moved  toward  the  open  window  with  his  cigar 
in  his  fingers. 

"  Don't  throw  away  your  cigar,  please.  If  you  don't 
resume  it  I  shall  feel  terribly  in  the  way.  You  see  I 
intruded  on  your  cigar,  not  it  on  me.  If  you  refuse  to 
smoke  and  talk  I  will  go  back  to  my  own  room." 


"  SHALL  A  ULD  ACQUAINTANCE  BE  FORGO  T?  "     115 

"  Thank  you.  Mother  and  the  girls  have  spoiled 
us — father  and  me  I  mean — by  letting  us  smoke  in  the 
sitting-room  at  home,  but  I'm  not  such  a  muff  as  to 
expect  indulgence  at  your  hands." 

"  Smoke,  Ferd,  smoke  in  peace  !  Depend  upon  it,  she 
means  it,  or  she  wouldn't  have  said  it.  It  is  one  of  my 
daughter's  most  striking  peculiarities  (sex  and  age  con- 
sidered, a  very  striking  one)  that  she  always  means  what 
she  says.  But  as  I  don't  want  you  to  undervalue  your 
blessings,  I  will  tell  you  that  you're  the  first  man  that 
ever  got  permission  to  smoke  in  her  presence.  It  is 
either  a  sign  of  interest  in  you,  of  which  I  hope  you  will 
try  to  prove  yourself  worthy,  or  a  sign  of  reconstruc- 
tion in  her,  of  which  you  will  please  make  a  note.  I'm 
always  sure  some  deep  internal  motive  is  surging  in 
my  daughter's  heart  when  she  appears  with  Penelope's 
web  in  her  hand.  Penelope's  web,"  leaning  over  and 
spreading  the  gay  woolen  thing  out  over  Effie's  lap, 
"  is  expected  to  eventuate  in  an  Afghan  for  me.  If 
I  die  before  it  is  completed,  and  man's  age  is  but  three- 
score and  ten,  I  will  make  you  my  residuary  legatee, 
Ferd." 

Effie  waited  very  patiently  for  this  harangue  to  ex- 
haust itself.  The  long  ivory  needles  were  click-clack- 
ing industriously.  She  leaned  back  with  a  sigh.  She 
wished  she  could  enter  more  heartily  into  her  father's 
jocularity,  but  Aunt  Priscilla  had  always  classed  fun 
and  frivolity  together.  She  fixed  her  grave  eyes  on 


1 1 6  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

the  flame  of  the  match  by  which  Mr.  Cosgrove  was 
rekindling  his  cigar. 

"  I  am  very  much  interested  in  all  you  have  to  tell 
me  about  the  South,"  she  said,  "  and  I  hope  you  won't 
think  it  impertinent  curiosity  either." 

"  I  think  I  quite  understand,"  he  said,  dropping  the 
burned  match  into  the  cuspadore,  and  resuming  his  chair, 
puffing  fora  second  in  silence  to  make  sure  of  his  cigar, 
then  clasping  one  arm  about  his  crossed  leg,  he  added, 
"  I  only  wish  such  curiosity  had  been  a  little  more 
general  before  the  war.  It  would  have  been  better  for 
us  all." 

"Why?" 

"  Because,  if  there  had  been  a  little  more  intelligent 
curiosity  among  the  people  of  the  North  concerning  the 
people  of  the  South,  rather  than  a  concentration  of  im- 
bittered  interest  in  our  one  accursed  institution  of 
slavery,  it  would  have  led  to  a  clearer  understanding 
on  both  sides.  Because,  if  we  had  come  face  to  face 
with  each  other  instead  of  being  the  puppets  of  poli- 
ticians on  both  sides,  greedy  of  self  aggrandizement 
alone,  it  would  have  been  well.  Because,  if  we  had 
reached  out  after  each  other's  love  and  esteem  with  a 
sincere  desire  for  a  better  mutual  und£rstanding,  the 
same  results  might  have  been  achieved  in  the  long  run 
without  the  horrible  sacrifices  that  went  to  its  final 
accomplishment." 

"  By  the  Eternal,  I  believe  you  are  right,  sir !  "  says 


"SHALL  AULD  ACQUAINTANCE  BE  FORGOT?"     117 

Dr.  Ambrose,   bringing   his  clenched   fist    mercilessly 
down  upon  his  own  knee. 

"  What  did  the  people  of  the  North  know  of  the  people 
of  the  South,"  Ferdinand  continued,  rising  in  his  earnest- 
ness and  facing  eagerly  toward  the  girl  whose  sweet,  up- 
raised face  glowed  with  answering  earnestness,  "  but 
what  they  saw  of  the  wealthy  among  them,  in  their 
butterfly  flutterings  about  some  Northern  watering- 
place  in  hot  weather,  or  what  they  read  about  them  in 
partisan  newspapers  that  colored  and  distorted  every 
statement  to  suit  the  exigencies  of  the  times  or  the 
tastes  of  their  own  constituents?  What  did  the  peo- 
ple of  the  South  know  of  the  people  of  the  North,  but 
what  they,  in  their  obscure  plantation  homes,  heard  in 
distant  echoes  transmitted  through  agencies  that  lent 
themselves  to  the  propagation  of  envy,  hatred,  malice, 
and  all  uncharitableness  ?  Why,  sir,"  facing  excitedly 
upon  the  doctor,  "  since  I've  come  North  I've  learned, 
as  a  thousand  years  of  theorizing  over  the  whys  and 
wherefores  of  the  lost  cause  could  not  have  taught  me, 
the  utter  madness  of  our  people.  I've  seen  enough  of 
the  material  prosperity  of  this  country  to  make  me 
marvel  at  the  fatuous  daring  of  the  men  who  precipi- 
tated the  secession  movement.  The  South  was  no 
more  prepared  to  grapple  with  the  North  in  a  death- 
grip  than  a  starved  child  could  grapple  with  a  well-fed 
giant.  I  marvel  at  the  daring,  but  I  glory  in  the  daunt- 
less courage  it  evoked  !  " 


Il8  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"You  speak  of  those  men  as  if  you  were  an  out- 
sider," says  Effie,  noting  what  she  gladly  hails  as  a 
sign  of  regeneration. 

"You  mistake  me  entirely.  I,  having  come  to  years 
of  discretion  since  the  costly  finale  has  been  reached, 
having  been  a  partaker  of  the  woes  that  sprung  from 
the  war  without  having  participated  in  the  blind  passion 
of  its  inception,  feel  warranted  in  speaking  of  its  results 
rather  than  its  causes.  But  it  was  not  the  political 
aspect  of  the  South  we  were  discussing  over  our  coffee. 
It  was  the  lives  of  our  women."  He  smiled  down  into 
Effie's  face.  This  young  man's  smile  was  one  of  his 
best  points.  It  was  a  sort  of  sudden  illumination  gen- 
erally quite  unexpected  and  fleeting,  leaving  his 
features  all  the  quieter  for  its  having  been.  Not  that 
his  was  an  uncheerful  face ;  it  was  more  as  if  he  had 
not  known  much  occasion  for  laughter. 

"Yes,"  says  Erfie,  with  a  nod  of  unusual  eagerness, 
"  You  said  they  never  shopped,  nor  went  to  theaters, 
nor  churches,  nor  things,  and  I  wondered  how  they 
lived  through  the  days." 

"Happily,  busily  and  intelligently,"  says  Ferd,  "in 
spite  of  it  all ; "  then  he  found  himself  wondering  if 
this  Boston-reared  girl,  with  a  nameless  charm  of  sweet 
earnestness  about  her  that  made  him  forget  her 
pedantry  and  her  narrowness  and  her  fixedness  in  a 
groove  that  was  altogether  unfamiliar  to  him,  would 
indorse,  his  use  of  those  adverbs  if  she  could  know  his 


' '  SHALL  A  ULD  A CQ UAMTANCE  BE  FORGO T?"     119 

mother  and  the  girls  as  he  knew  them — could  look  in 
upon  the  old  plantation  sitting-room,  with  its  faded 
ante-bellum  glories  in  such  sharp  contrast  with  its 
cheap  renovations,  on  evenings  when  the  family  was 
all  gathered  there  ;  his  father  and  his  mother  and  the 
three  girls  and  himself,  all  clustered  about  the  center 
table,  where  were  always  to  be  found  the  papers  and 
magazines  of  the  day  as  fast  as  their  slow  moving 
mails  could  fetch  them  :  could  see  mother,  with 
her  soft  white  bands  of  hair  tucked  smoothly  away 
under  her  cap  frill,  leaning  back  with  her  still  bright 
eyes  ciosed  behind  her  gold-rimmed  glasses  and  her 
hands  folded  restfully  in  her  lap  (such  busy  hands  they 
were  too),  while  father,  read  aloud  from  their  favorite 
weekly,  and  Annie,  the  pet  of  them  all,  sat  playing 
without  notes,  softly,  so  as  not  to  drown  the  reader's 
voice,  on  the  piano  that  was  almost  disreputable  for 
want  of  repairs  they  could  not  afford  ;  and  the  other 
two  girls  puzzled  their  united  brains  over  the  latest 
fashion  book,  so  that  the  dresses  they  must  make 
for  themselves  should  at  least  approximate  the 
fashions,  or  Puss  —  Puss,  so  intensely  black  that 
she  looked  like  a  mammoth  silhouette  outlined 
against  the  white-plastered  walls,  the  girls'  house-maid, 
torment  and  pet  all  rolled  into  one — stood  mutely  by 
the  piano,  marveling  at  the  melody  "  Missannie " 
evoked  from  the  cracked  and  yellow  keys,  with  an  in- 
tensely greasy  primer  clasped  to  her  bosom — for  Puss 


120  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

was  undergoing  the  agonies  that  beset  the  tiresome 
path  of  knowledge — and  presently  when  "  Missannie  " 
should  be  tired  of  the  disreputable  piano  she  would 
take  the  disreputable  primer  and  hear  the  lesson  Puss 
was  expected  to  know  but  never  did.  Aloud  he 
added,  "  But  it's  pretty  hard  lines  on  them  and  no 
mistake.  A  fellow  doesn't  reajize  quite  how  rough 
until  he  gets  away  from  it  all  himself.  I  think  of 
mother  and  the  girls  every  Sunday  morning  when  the 
church  bells  ring  and  the  day  looks  so  different  from 
the  other  six  up  here,  when  there's  something  beside 
the  stoppage  of  a  plow  to  mark  it.  And  when  you 
come  out  of  your  room,  Miss  Ambrose,  looking  so 
pretty  and  placid,  and  go  off  to  the  enjoyment  of  a 
good  sermon  and  fine  music  and  prayers  delivered  in  a 
civilized  tongue,  that  you  find  quite  tolerable,  even  if 
long,  from  your  softly  upholstered  pews,  I  wonder 
if  you  know  just  how  smoothly  the  machinery  does 
work  for  you  ?  " 

It  was  so  utterly  impossible  to  tell  from  this  rather 
vehemently  delivered  speech  whether  she  was  being 
complimented  on  her  prettiness  or  denounced  as  an 
ingrate  to  Providence,  that  Effie  stared  at  the  speaker 
helplessly  for  a  second,  then  murmured:  "I  hope  I'm 
not  unmindful  of  my  blessings,  Mr.  Cosgrove." 

He  laughed  lightly. 

"  I  didn't  in  the  least  mean  to  draw  any  invidious 
comparisons,  Miss  Effie,  but  I  can't  help  wishing  that 


"  SHALL  AULD  ACQUAINTANCE  BE  FORGOT?  "     121 

some  of  the  good  things  which  come  to  you  as  a  simple 
matter  of  course,  could  go  to  brighten  the  dull  lives  of 
my  dear  ones  on  the  old  plantation." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  prayers  in  a  civilized 
tongue  ?  "  Effie  asked. 

"  Oh !  well,  you  mustn't  weigh  my  words  too 
particularly.  We  are  a  God-fearing  people  down  South, 
though  you  might  not  think  so,  and  what  I  say,  please 
understand,  has  reference  only  to  my  own  little  piney 
woods  settlement,  miles  and  miles  from  any  town.  A 
state  of  affairs  exists  there  which  is  inseparable  from 
the  fact  that  it  is  exclusively  an  agricultural  country, 
with  very  few  whites,  and  those  so  far  apart  that  no 
community  of  interest  can  obtain.  You  know  there's 
no  such  thing  as  regular  church-going  among  us.  May- 
be two  or  three  times  a  year  word  will  be  sent  around 
that  some  seedy  parson  will  preach  at  somebody's 
house,  and  we'll  ride  miles  upon  miles  through  the 
mud  or  through  the  dust,  as  it  may  chance  to  be,  to 
hear  a  fellow  that  your  man  Maurice  here  could  put  to 
the  blush." 

"  And  the  poor  colored  people  ?  "  Effie  asks,  true  to 
her  earliest  sympathies. 

"  Oh !  they're  a  deal  better  off  than  we  are,"  says 
Ferd,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes ;  "  they've  got  about 
ten  preachers  to  every  plantation,  and  a  regular  meet- 
ing-house, too." 

"  Where  do  they  get  them  ?  " 


122  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  Which  ?    The  preachers  or  the  meeting-houses  ?  " 

"Both." 

"They  manufacture  the  first,  and  we  build  the  last." 

"But  manufacture  out  of  what?" 

"  Out  of  the  raw  material.  Any  fellow  with  a  good, 
strong  pair  of  lungs  and  an  easy  flow  of  language  is 
equipped  for  the  pulpit.  You  see  they  are  not  over 
fastidious." 

Here  the  doctor  interposed  a  lot  of  questions  touch- 
ing the  political  aspirations  of  the  race,  and  Miss  Am- 
brose subsided  into  a  thoughtful  silence.  It  all  had 
such  an  extremely  barbaric  sound  to  her,  and  yet  this 
young  man  with  the  delicate  profile,  and  eyes  luminous 
with  intelligence,  whose  voice  was  so  pleasantly  modu- 
lated, and  whose  manners  were  rather  oppressively 
polite,  wasn't  in  the  least  barbaric !  She  wondered  if 
the  women  who  never  went  any  where,  or  saw  any  body, 
or  heard  any  thing,  could  possibly  resemble  other  wom- 
en in  any  respect.  How  very  like  oysters  they  must 
feel !  Really,  it  was  a  field  for  missionary  labor.  She 
wondered  if  missionaries  would  be  well  received  there  ? 
It  made  her  shudder  to  think  how  empty  the  souls  of 
such  people  must  be.  Somebody  ought  to  stir  in  the 
matter. 

"  Mr.  Cosgrove  " — she  spoke  with  unusual  timidity, 
but  then  the  ground  was  unknown  and  might  prove 
treacherous,  "do  missionaries  ever  go  among  those 
poor  people  ?  " 


"  SHALL  AULD  ACQUAINTANCE  BE  FORGOT?"     123 

"  Which  poor  people,  Miss  Ambrose  ? "  Ferd's 
mustache  twitched  tremulously  and  he  glued  his  eyes 
to  the  spark  of  his  cigar  with  absorbed  interest. 

"  Because,"  says  Doctor  Ambrose,  warding  off  the 
blow,  "  my  daughter  is  consumed  with  missionary  zeal 
and  it  must  find  a  vent.  If  you  won't  let  her  work 
among  your  darkeys,  she  will  be  starting  off  to  Siam 
some  fine  morning,  leaving  me  desolate." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  the  colored  people,  father," 
she  says  with  intense  gravity  of  voice,  fixing  her  eyes 
imploringly  on  Ferd's  inscrutable  countenance  ;  "  I  was 
thinking  of  the  poor  white  people,  the  women  es- 
pecially." 

"  Define  the  class  you  would  like  to  benefit  more 
accurately,  Miss  Ambrose,"  he  says,  looking  away  from 
her  earnest  eyes  lest  she  should  detect  the  amusement 
in  his.  She  leaned  forward,  with  her  smooth,  white 
hands  clasped  over  the  gay  wools  of  the  afghan  ;  she 
wished  she  could  utter  the  thoughts  that  were  in  her. 
She  knew  she  seemed  cold  and  selfish  and  absorbed  in 
her  own  narrow  circle,  but  there  was  that  within  her 
that  stirred  restlessly  at  every  recital  of  hardship  and 
deprivation  endured  by  others.  The  world  teemed 
with  great  wrongs  to  be  righted,  and  here  she  sat  day 
after  day,  dreaming,  idling,  wasting !  A  selfish  cum- 
berer  of  the  earth  ! 

"  Perhaps  you  won't  quite  know  what  I  mean,  but  " 
— an  excited  pull  at  the  gong  on  the  office  door  start- 


124  THE  BAR- SINISTER. 

led  them  all,  and  drowned  her  words.  The  doctor 
answered  the  summons  in  shuffling  haste. 

"  What  the  devil—  '  he  began  angrily,  as  the 
massive  form  of  a  hackman  that  all  the  town  knew 
was  thrust  unceremoniously  into  their  presence. 

"No  time  for  gettin'  mad,  now,  doctor.  I've  driv' 
up  from  the  depot  in  a  rattlin'  hurry  to  fetch  you. 
There's  a  old  lady  down  there  in  the  station  waitin' 
room  with  some  hurt  about  her,  and  you're  wanted. 
They  told  me  to  whoop  you  up." 

"  You  may  as  well  come  too,  Ferd,"  said  the  doctor, 
getting  hastily  into  his  light  top-coat,  and  reaching  for 
his  case  of  instruments.  "  If  there's  any  bones  broken, 
I  may  need  assistance  that  every  body  can't  render. 
Who  is  she,  any  how?"  he  asked  the  driver  a  minute 
later  as  he  clambered  into  the  waiting  carriage. 

"  Don't  know,  sir.  Stranger.  Got  off  train  here. 
Dark  !  Fell  and  broke  some  of  her  machinery.  Reckon 
'twere  tol'abl*  rusty,  any  how.  She  ain't  no  spring 
chicken,"  and  banging  the  door  after  Mr.  Cosgrove  in 
such  excited  zeal  that  the  young  man's  heels  narrowly 
escaped  abrasion,  he  mounted  to  his  box  and  whipped 
his  horses  into  a  spanking  trot. 

"  Where  are  your  friends,  madam  ?  "  asked  the 
doctor,  having  satisfied  himself  by  a  thorough  examin- 
ation, that  the  stranger's  leg  was  broken  and  her  case 
likely  to  prove  a  serious  one. 

"Very  far  away,  doctor;  none  this  side  of  the  Rocky 


"  SHALL  AULD  ACQUAINTANCE  BE  FORGOT?"     125 

Mountains  unless  I  can  claim  you.  I  am  traveling 
alone ;  I  used  to  live  here  a  great  many  years  ago. 
My  name  was  Stone  ;  Letty  Stone.  The  pretty  Letty 
of  Elizabeth  they  called  me  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
century  ago ;  and  you,  oh  !  I've  not  forgotten  the 
name  of  John  Ambrose.  I  heard  them  say  go  for  Dr. 
Ambrose —  '  a  spasm  of  pain  seized  her,  wringing 
moans  in  place  of  words  from  her  quivering  lips. 

"  Letty  Stone  !  " 

The  doctor  peered  inquisitorially  over  his  glasses  at 
the  delicate  features  now  pinched  and  distorted  with 
suffering.  It  was  the  face  of  a  pretty  old  woman,  with 
fluffy  white  curls  clustering  on  the  temples,  and  gen- 
tle blue  eyes  that  looked  at  him  piteously  now  for 
help. 

"  Fetch  some  men  with  a  mattress,  Ferd ! "  he 
turned  from  the  settee  to  say;  "  and  you,"  to  the  cu- 
rious crowding  loungers,  "  get  out  of  here,  everyone  of 
you  !  "  He  closed  the  door  of  the  waiting-room  after 
the  departing  crowd,  and  came  back  to  the  sufferer, 
softly  repeating  her  name  more  than  once. 

"  Letty  Stone  !  Letty  Stone  !  Here  in  the  waiting- 
room  at  old  Elizabeth  station  !  Why  bless  my  soul, 
where  did  you  come  from  ?  " 

"  I  came  back  here  to  see  sister  Eliza  once  more, 
John,  before  I  died,  for  we're  both  getting  old,  but 
they  tell  me  she's  gone  !  And  when  I  told  them  to 
carry  me  to  Mrs.  Levison's,  they  told  me  there  was  not 


126  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

any  Mrs.  Levison.  And  how  about  Jenny?  and  brother 
Jim  ?  "  Tears  welled  in  the  patient  eyes. 

"Gone  ;  all  your  folks  gone!  long  ago  !  A  new  set's 
sprung  up,  Letty  ;  you  and  I  belong  to  the  old  ;  we're 
about  the  only  ones  left.  I'll  take  you  to  my  home 
and  care  for  you." 

"  No  !  no  !  not  there." 

"  There's  nobody  there  that  you  ever  wronged.  My 
daughter  never  heard  the  name  of  Letty  Stone." 

"  But  that's  not  my  name  now,  John  Ambrose.  I've 
been  married  this  many  a  year.  But  you  mustn't 
feel  bound  to  take  care  of  me.  I'm  not  a  poor  woman. 
The  Lord  has  dealt  bountifully  by  me.  I'm  able  to 
buy  good  nursing.  It's  a  pity  I  came  now,  but  I  got 
to  hankering  after  a  sight  of  the  old  place  and  a 
glimpse  of  the  old  faces,  but  there's  none  of  them  here 
to  greet  me,  not  a  hand  to  clasp  mine,  not  an  eye  to 
recognize  me.  You'll  cure  me  up  as  quick  as  you  can, 
John,  and  let  me  go  away  again.  It  was  a  foolish 
woman's  whim  that  brought  me  here." 

"  You  shall  be  taken  care  of,  Letty,  and  not  grudg- 
ingly either;  but  if  there's  any  body  you'd  like  especially 
to  have  near  you  I'll  telegraph  for  them,  for  you  are 
going  to  have  a  tedious  time  of  it  and  my  house  is 
open  to  any  body  you  want." 

"  It's  good  of  you,"  she  said  slowly,  "and,  it's  like 
you.  No !  there's  no  one  I  want  ;  I  can  pay  for 
nursing  and  I  can  stand  whatever  the  Lord  chooses  to 


"  SHALL  A  ULD  ACQUAINTANCE  BE  FORGOT?"     127 

send  upon  me  uncomplainingly.  Who  knows  what 
design  He  had  in  bringing  me  here  ;  and  even  with  this 
racking  pain  on  me,  John,  I  can  say  He  doeth  all 
things  well." 

"You've  gotten  hold  of  a  pretty  strong  trust  in 
Providence  if  you  can  see  the  Lord's  hand  in  the  midst 
of  your  sufferings,"  said  the  doctor,  not  irreverently, 
simply  wonderingly ;  "  if  I  remember  right,  Letty  Stone 
wasn't  so  meek  and  unrepining." 

"  Laetitia  Stone  was  a  wickedly  rebellious,  flighty  girl 
that  brought  unhappiness  on  every  body  that  ever  loved 
her.  I  can  hardly  think  of  her  as  my  old  self,  John.  But 
the  Lord  has  brought  me  up  out  of  a  horrible  pit,  out  of 
the  miry  clay,  and  set  my  feet  upon  a  rock  and  estab- 
lished my  goings ;  I  can  see  His  hand  in  every  thing 
that  befalls  me  and  I  know  He  has  work  for  me  to  do 
here,  or  He  would  not  have  stricken  me  so  that  I  am 
not  free  to  go  away  again,  even  now  that  there's  noth- 
ing to  stay  for,  humanly  speaking." 

"  Well,  if  it's  active  work  He's  got  for  you  to  do, 
I'm  afraid  you'll  not  be  a  satisfactory  tool  in  the  Lord's 
hands  soon.  Ah  !  here  is  my  man  !  "  as  Ferd  entered 
with  four  men  and  a  stretcher;  "now  then,  easy, 
boys ! " 

She  bore  the  pain  of  removal  unflinchingly,  and 
when  finally  they  had  deposited  her  with  womanly 
gentleness  upon  the  bed  Effie  had  made  haste  to  prepare 
for  her,  she  smiled  bravely  up  into  the  pitying  faces 


128  THE  BAR  SINISTER. 

around  her.  "  You're  all  very  good  to  me  !  Thank  you  ! 
John's  daughter  ?  "  she  asked,  laying  her  hand  on  Effie's, 
that  were  busy  with  her  bonnet  ribbons.  "  My  name 
is  Shaw,  dear,  Mrs.  Laetitia  Shaw !  I'm  afraid  I'm 
going  to  be  a  burden  to  you,  but  the  Lord's  hand  is  in 
it.  Blessed  be  His  name." 


CHAPTER  XL 

A   SAINTLY   SINNER. 

*''T^HE  Lord's  hand  is  in  it.  Blessed  be  the  name 
_L  of  the  Lord  !  As  my  need  is,  so  shall  my 
strength  be.  He  will  not  forsake  me." 

This  was  the  answer  the  bishop's  wife  gave  to  Dr. 
Ambrose  as  some  hours  later  he  stood  by  her  bedside, 
adding  a  few  words  of  pitying  exhortation  to  patience 
to  the  instructions  he  had  just  finished  giving  the  hired 
nurse  for  the  night. 

"  I'm  glad  you  can  take  it  so  serenely.  You  are  sure 
there's  no  one  you'd  like  to  have  come?  Plenty  of 
room.  Daughter  and  I  will  do  all  we  can  to  keep  your 
heart  up." 

"  It's 'never  down,  John.  Thank  you,  no  ;  there's  no 
one  I  want." 

She  smiled  bravely  up  into  his  rugged,  kindly  face, 
then  closed  her  eyes  wearily.  The  doctor  tip-toed 
laboriously  out  of  the  room  to  join  Effie  and  young 
Cosgrove  in  the  library.  It  was  long  past  midnight, 
but  anxiety  for  the  stranger  so  summarily  arrived  with- 
in their  gates  banished  all  idea  of  sleep  from  the  three. 
Ferd  took  a  professional  interest  in  the  case,  having 


130  THE.  BAR-SINISTER. 

tried  his  'prentice  hand  on  Mrs.  Shaw's  broken  bones 
and  been  cordially  commended  by  his  master. 

"How  is  she,  father?"  Effie  asked,  as  the  doctor 
creaked  into  their  presence. 

"  Pretty  comfortable,  all  things  considered.  She's 
not  as  young  as  she  once  was,  and  bones  knit  slowly  at 
her  time  of  life.  I  have  told  her  that  she  is  in  for  a 
tedious  siege  of  it,  but  she  seems  pretty  well  fortified." 

"  She  is  absolutely  heroic  in  her  endurance  of  pain," 
says  Ferd  ;  "  I  never  saw  any  thing  like  it." 

"  She  was  always  a  plucky  one,"  the  doctor  answers, 
gazing  dreamily  before  him  as  he  conjured  up  the  vision 
of  Letty  Stone's  girlhood,  "  and  tremendously  set  in 
all  her  ways." 

"  Tell  us  about  her,  father.  She  is  so  pretty  and 
patient  and  saintly.  I  am  quite  sure  I  am  going  to 
love  her." 

The  doctor  laughed.  Mockery,  mirth  and  tender- 
ness all  went  into  the  make-up  of  that  laugh. 

"You  knew  her  when  she  was  young,"  says  Effie,  by 
way  of  launching  the  story-teller  on  memory's  tide. 

"  Yes ;  I  knew  Letty  Stone  when  she  was  young. 
All  the  boys  in  Elizabeth  knew  her,  and  half  of  them 
were  in  love  with  her.  I  belonged  to  that  half.  No- 
body called  her  saintly  then,  though.  She  was  just 
the  merriest  witch  that  ever  set  a  lot  of  boys  by  the 
ears.  A  man  never  knew  how  big  a  fool  he  could  make 
of  himself  until  Letty  Stone  got  through  with  him. 


A  SAINTLY  SINNER.  131 

She  was  an  orphan,  and  lived  here  with  a  married 
sister  a  little  older  than  herself.  She  took  the  town  by 
surprise  finally  by  going  over  to  New  York  to  visit 
some  relatives  and  never  coming  back.  Her  sister  gave 
out  that  Letty  had  gone  to  California  with  relatives. 
I  never  heard  of  her  from  that  day  up  to  to-night. 
She  don't  seem  to  be  over-stocked  with  kin  now.  She 
insists  upon  it  there's  nobody  to  send  for.  She'll  be 
plucky  to  the  end.  There's  no  discount  on  Letty 
Stone,  young  or  old." 

"  I  shall  love  to  attend  to  her,  father,"  says  Effie, 
with  the  enthusiasm  that  she  always  held  in  reserve  for 
people  or  occasions  that  were  not  commonplace.  "  I  am 
quite  sure  she  is  no  ordinary  character.  She  will  be  a 
study  for  me." 

"  No,  she's  no  ordinary  character.  She  seems  to  me 
to  be  rather  an  exaggerated  sort  of  a  Christian,  though. 
The  woman  that  can  trace  the  hand  of  the  Lord  in  the 
breaking  of  her  bones  is  certainly  not  the  sort  of 
woman  one  stumbles  over  every  day.  She  has  the 
spirit  of  endurance  that  demands  the  stake  and  fagot 
for  full  exercise." 

"  Don't  you  think,  father,  that  the  spirit  of  endur- 
ance is  quite  as  strong  now  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  the 
early  Christian  martyrs,  only  the  safe  surroundings  and 
commonplace  conditions  of  to-day  hold  it  in  abey- 
ance ?  "  asks  Effie,  always  ready  to  pursue  the  intense 
view  of  the  subject;  "and  don't  you  believe  that 


132  7Y/£  &AR-S1NISTER. 

women  are  prepared  to  go  just  as  far  in  support  of  con- 
science as  they  ever  were  ?  " 

Dr.  Ambrose  yawned  audibly  and  looked  over  her 
head  as  she  stood  in  front  of  him,  to  say :  "  I  shall 
want  you  to  help  me  dress  the  leg,  Ferd,  to-morrow  as 
soon  as  the  old  lady  has  taken  some  refreshment.  As 
long  as  this  accident  was  to  befall  (as  she  regards  it), 
you  may  as  well  extract  all  the  instruction  possible  out 
of  it.  Come,  it  is  time  we  were  all  in  bed.  Good- 
night, puss."  He  stooped  to  kiss  his  daughter  good- 
night, but  as  she  turned  away  in  silent  displeasure  the 
caress  lodged  on  the  tip  of  her  nose. 

Evidently  her  father  had  not  even  heard  what  she 
said.  His  whole  mind  was  on  that  broken  leg,  and  so 
was  Mr.  Cosgrove's.  She  was  nothing  but  a  child,  a 
foolish  child,  to  these  two  men  !  Her  views  were  not 
even  worth  listening  to  !  They  could  do  without  her 
just  as  well  as  with  her.  Ferd  sprang  to  open  the  door 
for  her.  He  smiled  down  into  her  overcast  face  as  he 
said : 

"  I  believe  in  it !  " 

"In  what?" 

"  In  woman's  enthusiastic  advocacy  of  what  she 
believes  to  be  right.  I  think  every  true,  earnest  woman 
has  the  germ  of  a  martyr  in  her  bosom." 

"Oh!  thanks!  I  would  quite  as  lief  be  ignored,  as 
papa  ignores  me,  as  to — ' 

"  To  what,  as  you  won't  finish  ?  " 


A  SAINTLY  SINNER.  133 

"  Be  laughed  at  by — any  body  else.  Good-night,  Mr. 
Cosgrove." 

"  Please  believe  I  am  not  laughing  at  you.  I 
shouldn't  dare  do  so." 

"  You  have  my  permission  to  dare  it,  if  the  inclina- 
tion seizes 'you."  It  wasn't  very  encouraging,  but  she 
looked  so  thoroughly  handsome  with  the  red  spots  of 
suppressed  excitement  in  her  cheeks,  with  her  solemn 
eyes  ablaze,  and  she  was  so  much  more  comprehensible 
when  she  showed  temper  just  like  an  ordinary  mortal, 
that  Ferd  waxed  bold  to  add : 

"  But,  I  hope  you  will  never  give  your  allegiance  to 
any  cause  that  can  possibly  furnish  scope  for  mar- 
tyrdom." 

"Why?" 

"  Because,  once  you  think  you  are  right,  let  you  be 
never  so  far  wrong,  you  will  out-do  all  the  martyrs  of 
old  in  obstinacy.  And  then,  you  know,"  he  added 
with  twinkling  eyes,  "  saints  and  martyrs  are  such 
excessively  uncomfortable  house-mates  for  ordinary 
mortals." 

"  You  are  not  likely  to  suffer  any  practical  discom- 
fort of  that  sort,  Mr.  Cosgrove,  as  long  as  you  remain 
with  us.  We  are  thoroughly  commonplace  and  easy- 
going. But  I'm  glad  you  think  me  capable  of  such 
great  things,  any  how." 

And  so,  in  the  guest  chamber  of  Dr.  Ambrose's 
house  for  the  next  two  months  to  come  Mrs.  Laetiti* 


134  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

-* 

Shaw  lay  a  patient  sufferer  and  cheerful  convalescent, 
ministered  to  by  the  father  and  the  daughter  with  a 
wholeness  of  sweet  charity  that  knew  no  stint  nor 
tiring. 

The  sick  woman  wrote  no  letters,  nor  did  she  receive 
any.  No  questions  were  asked  her  touching  her  own 
home,  and  she  volunteered  no  information.  She  had 
come  East  on  a  mission.  Elizabeth  had  been  made  the 
objective  point  of  her  visit  simply  because  it  had  been 
her  pld  home.  She  had  gravitated  there  naturally. 
The  longing  to  look  upon  the  face  of  her  own  kindred 
had  been  strong  within  her.  But  she  found  herself 
more  of  a  stranger  in  the  old  place  than  the  young 
medical  student  from  the  South,  who  helped  Dr. 
Ambrose  cure  her.  Surely  then,  this  drawing  toward 
the  old  home  must  have  a  deeper  meaning  than  the 
seeking  of  old  faces,  the  yearning  for  dear  voices, 
silenced  now  forever.  She  had  been  led  thither  by  the 
hand  of  God,  direct.  There  was  no  such  thing  as 
chance.  She  had  been  cast  helpless  upon  the  mercy 
of  these  people  for  God's  own  good  purposes.  The 
plan  of  operations  that  had  been  mapped  out  for  her 
by  those  in  authority,  who  had  sent  her  out  to  recruit 
for  the  ranks  of  the  Saints,  had  been  narrowed  by 
an  act  of  Divine  interposition  down  to  the  circle  of 
which  she  formed  a  temporary  member.  What  was 
she  to  think,  but  that  God  had  sent  her  to  rescue  this 
sweet  girl,  who  hovered  about  her  constantly  under  a 


A  SAINTLY  SINNER.  135 

strange  fascination,  from  the  error  of  her  ways  ?  It  was 
from  the  ranks  of  the  refined  and  the  educated  that 
the  Saints  must  be  recruited.  It  was  a  reproach  which 
she  yearned  to  cast  off  from  her  people,  that  it  was 
only  the  ignorant  and  benighted,  or  the  grossly  vicious 
who  accepted  the  tenets  of  the  New  Gospel!  This 
was  why,  when  in  conclave  of  the  Elders  it  was  decided 
to  send  an  emissary  East,  Mrs.  Shaw  had  volunteered 
to  fill  that  delicate  position.  Those  whom  she  brought 
into  the  fold  should  be  such  as  would  shed  luster  iipon 
the  Church  !  Her  pre-arranged  plan  had  been  to  oper- 
ate in  New  York  City ;  this  coming  to  Elizabeth  had 
been  but  for  a  day's  sojourn !  A  greeting  and  a  fare- 
well !  But  God  had  ordained  otherwise.  His  meaning 
was  clearly  to  be  traced.  Her  work  was  close  at  hand. 
Helpless  and  crippled,  she  must  be  about  the  Lord's 
bidding.  She  must  impress  the  message  He  sent  by 
her  upon  the  pure  white  tablet  of  Effie  Ambrose's 
heart,  unmistakably  and  indelibly.  One  such  earnest 
nature  rescued  from  the  error  of  its  ways,  were  worth 
a  hundred  common  converts.  This  girl  once  enrolled 
among  the  Saints  would  be  not  only  a  disciple  but  an 
apostle. 

It  is  characteristic  of  religious  fanatics  that  by  con- 
stant contemplation  of  one  view  of  the  subject  judg- 
ment and  conscience  become  so  warped  that  no  other 
point  of  view  is  possible.  Remorselessly,  persistently, 
secretively,  this  woman,  whose  whole  soul  would  have 


136  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

revolted  at  any  act  of  treachery,  recognized  as  such  by 
her  own  conscience,  set  about  the  task  of  winning  Dr. 
Ambrose's  daughter  over  to  Mormonism.  Her  heart 
yearned  over  those  who  walked  in  darkness,  while  she 
received  the  full  effulgence  shed  by  the  New  Gospel 
on  all  its  followers.  She  was  ready  to  endure  miscon- 
struction and  obloquy  to  an  unlimited  extent  so  long 
as  it  was  part  of  the  discipline  for  her  soul  that  bespoke 
her  one  of  the  anointed.  Aware  that  her  field  of  use- 
fulness, in  the  particular  instance  of  the  doctor's 
daughter,  would  be  sown  with  obstructive  tares,  if, 
unaided  and  physically  enfeebled,  she  should  be  com- 
pelled to  combat  the  fierce  opposition  and  masculine 
scorn  of  rugged  John  Ambrose,  she  wove  her  mesh  of 
subtle  arguments  and  perilous  sophisms  about  the 
girl's  bewildered  fancy  with  a  delicacy  of  caution  and 
a  refinement  of  flattery  that  made  it  all  the  more 
durable  in  the  long  run. 

At  first  it  was  but  as  a  listener  to  delightfully  told 
tales  of  travel  that  Effie,  morning  after  morning,  sat 
with  clasped  hands  and  eyes  attent,  while  the  pretty 
old  woman,  with  the  fluffy  white  curls  and  the  gentle 
blue  eyes  and  the  softly  sympathetic  voice,  lay  back 
in  the  big  invalid  chair  and  entertained  her.  Per- 
haps neither  one  of  them  could  ever  have  told  at 
what  particular  juncture  narrative  glided  into  instruc- 
tion, instruction  into  persuasion,  persuasion  into  ex- 
hortation, exhortation  into  warning  on  the  one  part 


A  SAINTL  Y  SINNER.  137 

or  on  the  other  ;  curiosity  into  interest,  interest  into 
anxiety,  anxiety  into  approval,  approval  into  accept- 
ance. 

It  was  not  with  any  conscious  purpose  of  deceiving 
her  father  that  Effie  failed  to  enlighten  him  about  the 
moral  convulsions  that  were  shaking  her  untried  soul 
to  its  very  center.  It  was  not  her  habit  to  show  him 
the  workings  of  her  mind.  She  was  only  with  him  a 
relaxation,  she  thought,  never  conscious  of  how  much 
a  study  he  had  made  of  her  before  lovingly  concluding 
to  take  her  just  as  she  was.  He  would  never  see  this 
thing  as  she  began  to  see  it.  It  would  only  be  dis- 
quieting to  both  of  them  to  discuss  it.  She  would  go 
with  this  lovely,  refined  old  lady,  as  safe  a  guide  as 
one  could  have,  and  spy  out  this  strange  land  for  her- 
self. 

"  But  father,  poor  dear,  he  will  miss  me,"  she  said, 
arguing  for  and  against  before  the  moment  of  final  ac- 
ceptance. 

"  He  gave  you  up  for  ten  years  for  your  temporal 
welfare,  can  he  not  spare  you  for  your  spiritual  gain 
as  well  ?  He  will  follow  you.  Never  fear,  dear,  but 
that  the  separation  will  be  a  short  one.  The  Lord's 
hand  is  in  it.  Plainly  and  unmistakably  He  led  me 
to  you.  You  have  heard  His  message,  decide  for  your- 
self." 

Did  she  decide  for  herself?  Was  it  of  her  own 
accord  that,  just  the  night  before  the  bishop's  wife  was 


138  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

ready  to  flit  again  from  the  old  town  that  thirty  years 
before  she  had  stolen  away  from  so  noiselessly,  the 
girl  went  to  her,  and  with  a  trembling  voice  but  reso- 
lute eyes,  said : 

"  I  will  go  with  you  !  If  it  is  as  you  tell  me  that 
there  I  may  find  a  lovelier,  holier,  higher  consecration 
of  a  woman's  faculties  than  she  can  ever  hope  to 
attain  elsewhere,  I  will  accept  the  gospel  of  your 
teaching  without  one  single  reservation.  For  here, 
what  am  I  ?  " 

"  The  thrall  of  circumstances,  dear.  An  imprisoned 
soul,  a  wasted  organism,"  says  the  bishop's  wife,  with 
that  positivism  that  seemed  to  the  girl  the  embodi- 
ment of  a  wisdom  that  was  ready  with  a  solution  of 
her  every  doubt,  so  soon  as  it  found  utterance. 

Mrs.  Shaw  took  the  pliant,  plastic  nature  into  her 
own  vigorous  hands.  The  girl  found  in  her  what  she 
had  lost  in  the  aunt  to  whom  she  had  given  so  gener- 
ous a  share  of  that  enthusiastic  allegiance  which  all 
strong,  unique  natures  demand  from  imaginative  ones. 
Once  committed  to  the  step  of  following  this  silver- 
tongued  prophetess  out  into  that  strange  country 
where  "  God  revealed  Himself  in  special  teachings  to 
His  chosen  people,"  Effie  grew  dreamily  indifferent  to 
the  minor  details  of  the  Hegira.  It  was  the  bishop's 
wife  who  settled  the  order  of  their  going,  and  timed  it 
so  that  no  disquieting  scenes  might  imperil  the  success 
of  her  scheme.  It  was  the  bishop's  wife  who  con- 


A  SAINTLY  SINNER.  139 

vinced  her  that  a  letter  of  explanation  left  in  her 
father's  desk  was  by  far  the  most  sensible  form  of 
leave-taking.  It  was  the  bishop's  wife  who  lulled  her 
remorse  and  strengthened  her  resolution  by  reminding 
her  of  the  many  years  her  father  had  voluntarily  fore- 
gone her  society.  It  was  the  bishop's  wife  who  fired  that 
fervent  young  soul  with  visions  of  a  life  possible  here 
on  earth  wherein  she,  as  God's  chosen  handmaiden, 
might  cover  herself  with  light  as  with  a  garment.  It 
was  the  bishop's  wife  who  conjured  her  to  walk  by 
faith — that  faith  which  is  the  substance  of  things  hoped 
for,  the  evidence  of  things  not  seen.  And  it  was  on 
the  arm  of  the  older  woman  that  the  rash  girl  leaned 
for  strength  at  the  last  moment  of  sore  trial,  when  she 
passed  out  from  under  the  roof  that  had  sheltered  her 
cradle,  to  return — When?  How?  Who  knows? 


CHAPTER  XII. 

STRICKEN     HEARTS. 

"T  7OU  don't  think  it  shabby  of  Ferd  and  me  saying 
X  good-by  now,  Mrs.  Shaw,  nor  abuse  us  for  not 
being  here  to  see  you  off  this  afternoon  ?  Effie'll  drive 
you  down  to  the  depot  in  the  phaeton,  and  Maurice 
will  check  your  baggage  through  to — well,  wherever 
you're  going.  I've  got  a  specially  interesting  case  over 
in  Newark  this  morning,  and,  as  it's  part  of  Ferd's 
education  to  go  along  with  me  on  such  occasions,  I'm 
afraid  we  can't  either  one  of  us  get  back  by  luncheon 
to  see  you  to  the  train." 

The  bishop's  wife  looked  smilingly  up  into  her  old 
friend's  face  while  he  thus  apologized  for  going  about 
his  business,  and  her  gentle  blue  eyes  never  quailed  as 
she  answered  graciously: 

"Don't  spend  a  thought  on  me,  John.  I'm  used 
to  getting  off  and  on  trains  by  myself,  and  am  not 
always  so  awkward  as  I  was  here,  getting  off  with  a 
broken  limb.  But  it  was  a  blessed  accident,  after  all ! 
You've  been  very  good  to  me,  John,  and  I  thank  you 
for  all  you've  done.  Effie  thinks  of  going  to  the  city 
with  me," 


STRICKEN  HEAR  TS.  141 

"  All  right.  She  hasn't  done  any  shopping  for  an 
age.  How  much  is  it,  Pet?"  and  with  the  last  words, 
the  doctor's  pocket-book  came  prominently  into  view, 

Effie  pushed  it  away  with  a  trembling  hand.  "  Noth- 
ing, father,  nothing.  You  mustn't  be  so  good  to  me. 
You'll  break  my  heart." 

For  a  second  she  clasped  her  arms  about  his  neck  in 
a  frenzy  of  remorseful  indecision.  How  could  she  go? 
Mrs.  Shaw's  voice,  cool,  calm,  incisive,  broke  the  spell 
with  words  chosen  with  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent : 

"  I  see  you  have  yet  to  learn,  friend  Ambrose,  that 
your  dear  girl  is  not  of  the  sort  that  hasn't  an  idea 
above  a  ribbon  or  a  yard  of  lace !  She  has  a  soul  that 
refuses  to  be  fed  on  froth.  It  knows  its  own  higher 
needs." 

"Bless  my  soul!  Who  talks  of  froth?"  the  old 
man  laughed,  as  he  pushed  his  daughter  far  enough 
away  to  look  into  her  troubled  eyes.  She  was  un- 
doubtedly queer!  It  must  be  Priscilla's  fault!  But 
the  buggy  was  waiting,  and  putting  back  his  rejected 
pocket-book,  he  kissed  her  and  went  off  to  his  case,  with 
never  a  thought  of  the  treachery  he  left  behind. 

Coming  back  late  that  evening  he  turned  at  the  gate 
to  say  to  Ferd,  busy  at  the  hitching-post : 

"  It's  just  ten  minutes  to  train  time,  Ferd ;  maybe 
you  wouldn't  mind  driving  down  to  the  depot  for 
Effie.  If  you  are  tired,  though,"  he  added,  hypocriti- 
cally, "  Maurice  can  take  the  phaeton  just  as  well." 


142  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

But  Ferd  had  already  gathered  the  reins  once  more 
into  his  eager  hands,  and  with  a  little  laugh  of  amuse- 
ment at  the  doctor's  shallow  show  of  apology,  turned 
the  horses'  heads  in  the  direction  of  the  station. 

"It's  well  to  throw  these  pleasant  little  opportunities 
in  young  folks'  way ;"  and  the  old  man  smiled  as  he 
recalled  the  young  one's  eager  seizure  of  the  opportu- 
nity. "  I'm  sure  of  Ferd.  He's  just  as  far  gone  as  a  chap 
needs  to  be.  But  the  girl !  She's  inscrutable.  Abso- 
lutely inscrutable,  if  she  is  my  own  child.  She  almost 
makes  me  believe  in  changelings." 

He  had  long  since  begun  to  look  complacently  on 
Ferdinand  Cosgrove  in  the  light  of  a  possible  son-in- 
law.  Nothing,  according  to  his  way  of  thinking,  could 
be  more  suitable.  A  vision  of  himself  taking  a  well- 
earned  rest  in  his  old  age,  while  Ferd  stepped  easily 
and  naturally  into  his  practice,  was  a  pleasant  vision, 
and  he  conjured  it  up  again  on  this  occasion,  as  he 
congratulated  himself  on  his  bit  of  harmless  maneuver- 
ing. 

Coming  into  the  office  half  an  hour  later  to  re- 
port his  failure  to  find  Miss  Ambrose  at  the  station, 
Ferd  found  him  sitting  at  his  desk,  staring  fixedly  at 
an  open  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  Here,  Ferd  !  "  he  said,  in  a  slow,  quiet  voice,  "  read 
that  for  me."  He  held  Effie's  letter  out  in  a  hand  that 
shook  as  if  palsied.  "  I've  read  it  over  two  or  three 
times,  but  it  don't  seem  to  get  any  clearer.  Maybe 


STRICKEN  HEAR  TS.  1 43 

the  fault's  in  my  glasses."  He  took  off  his  eye-glasses 
and  rubbed  them  mechanically,  while  Ferd  swept  the 
written  lines  with  a  surprised  glance. 

"  Why,  it's  from  Miss  Ambrose,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"Yes.     Read  it!     It's  from  Miss  Ambrose." 

"She  won't  be  at  home,  then,  to-night." 

"  Read  it !  " 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,  she  might  not  ap — 

"  Read  it !  Read  it,  boy !  And  if  there  is  any 
meaning  in  it,  pick  it  out  and  hammer  it  into  this  old 
dotard's  head  !  "  The  old  man  smote  his  thin,  white 
locks  with  clenched  fist  in  fierce  emphasis  of  his  com- 
mand. "  Read  it  aloud,  but  slowly,  Ferd !  Perhaps  I 
can  understand  it  better  then." 

Startled  and  wondering  Ferdinand  turned  his  atten- 
tion from  the  doctor's  passionately  excited  face  to  the 
letter  in  his  hand.  His  own  lips  grew  white  and  a  dark 
flush  settled  on  either  cheek  as  he  read  : 

"  MY  DEAR  FATHER — Don't  grieve  over  the  step  I 
have  taken,  nor  seek  to  interfere  with  my  most  fixed  re- 
solve. I  believe  that  the  Lord  has  spoken  to  me  by  the 
voice  of  that  saintly  woman  who  was  led  so  providen- 
tially to  our  doors,  led  direct  of  God,  I  do  believe,  to  bring 
me  up  out  of  the  miry  clay.  I  have  gone  with  her  as 
Ruth  went  with  Naomi,  to  make  her  people  my  people, 
her  country  my  country,  her  creed  my  creed,  and 
whithersoever  she  goeth,  there  also  will  I  go.  Under 
her  apostolic  leadership  I  hope  to  lead  that  higher  and 


144  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

better  life  that  can  only  be  attained  through  the  morti- 
fication of  our  earthly  affections,  and  the  sharp  pain  of 
my  separation  from  you,  father,  is  but  one  of  the  many 
stripes  I  am  prepared  to  endure  if  I  may  but  be  found 
worthy  of  acceptance  at  last.  The  yearning  of  my 
soul  for  a  broader,  higher  life  than  that  I  have  led  in 
my  lonely  self-absorption,  (feeling  within  me  a  burning 
zeal  and  boundless  energy  to  be  up  and  doing,  with  no 
avenue  for  their  exercise  open  to  me,)  has  been  more 
intense  and  caused  me  more  acute  pain  than  you  can 
conceive  of.  Such  a  narrow,  sordid,  useless  life,  dear 
father,  I  give  up  without  one  sigh  for  myself,  but 
many  a  tear  for  you.  Tell  Ferdinand  (I  will  call 
him  so  just  this  once)  that  it  comforts  me  to  think  of 
him  as  with  you.  I  want  him  to  be  as  a  dear  son  to 
you.  If  I  could  have  hoped  for  a  patient  hearing  from 
you,  father,  I  would  have  explained  my  desires  and 
intentions  to  you  in  person,  but  you  would  just  have 
looked  at  me  with  that  far  away,  uncomprehending 
look  in  your  eyes  that  always  makes  me  feel  as  if  we 
were  living  in  two  different  spheres,  and  either  have 
laughed  at  me  or  stormed  at  me,  and  I  feel  too 
unnerved  to  risk  either.  As  soon  as  I  am  settled  in  my 
new  home  you  shall  hear  from  me,  provided  you  will 
promise  not  to  vex  my  soul  with  importunities  for  me 
to  return  to  the  old  life  of  unsatisfying  luxury  and 
enervating  indulgence.  Think  of  me  as  happy,  father, 
and  as  stepping  heavenward.  Do  not  cast  one  thought 


STRICKEN  HEARTS.  145 

of  reproach  toward  Mrs.  Shaw.  She  has  been  but  an 
humble  instrument  in  the  hands  of  Divine  Providence. 
The  scales  have  fallen  from  my  eyes,  father,  and  seeing 
as  I  see  now,  believing  as  I  believe  now,  it  would  be 
the  worst  of  weakness,  if  not  criminal,  for  me  to  act 
differently.  You  have  not  lost  your  daughter.  Think 
of  me  as  gone  to  school  again.  Only  this  time  the 
Saints  will  be  my  instructors." 

The  young  man's  voice  was  husky  with  a  passion  that 
made  it  tremble  over  the  last  few  words  of  this  cruel 
letter.  He  folded  it  up  and  methodically  replaced  it 
in  its  envelope.  What  could  he  say  to  that  stricken 
father  to  soften  its  cruelty  or  cloak  the  treachery  of  his 
only  child  ?  What  could  he  say  to  his  own  heart  on 
behalf  of  this  strangely  rash  act  of  the  girl  who  had 
been  to  him  the  embodiment  of  sweet  reserve  and 
womanly  dignity? 

"Well?" 

It  was  the  doctor  who  uttered  it,  in  such  a  strained, 
eager  voice,  and  Ferd  only  echoed  the  word  dully. 

"Well,  sir." 

"  What  does  it  all  mean,  Ferd  ?  I  don't  seem  to  be 
able  to  follow  it.  I'd  think  she'd  gone  off  to  commit 
suicide  if  it  wasn't  for  that  sentence  about  my  hearing 
from  her!  But  what  did  she  want  to  go  at  all  for, 
Ferd?  Wasn't  I  good  to  her?  Poor  little  thing,  if  she'd 
told  me  she  was  lonely,  I'd  have  filled  the  house  from 
garret  to  cellar  with  people  of  her  own  choosing.  Don't 


146  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

she  say  somewhere  there,"  pointing  his  palsied  hand  at 
the  letter  in  Ferd's,  "something  about  loneliness?  I 
loved  her  though,  Ferd  ;  ay  boy,  that  I  did,  my  pretty 
Effie." 

Two  big  tears  rolled  down  his  furrowed  cheeks  and 
fell  on  the  shaking  hands  that  were  folded  on  his  lap. 
Ferdinand  sprang  from  his  chair  and  walked  away  to  a 
window  where  he  stood  staring  out  on  the  darkening 
street.  The  two  men  wrestled  silently  with  their 
mighty  grief.  Each  heart  knew  its  own  bitterness. 
Dr.  Ambrose  broke  the  long  silence. 

"  Ferd !  come  here,  son.  Have  you  studied  it  out 
yet  ?  " 

The  young  Mississippian  came  to  him  and  leaned 
over  the  back  of  his  chair.  He  did  not  want  to  look 
him  in  the  face,  for  he  knew  that  when  he  spoke  it 
would  be  to  add  shame  to  the  old  man's  grief,  wrath  to 
his  sorrow. 

"  It  means,  sir,  that  you  have  been  nursing  a  viper  in 
your  bosom  and  that  it  has  stung  you  !  " 

"A  viper!" 

It  was  a  roar  of  rage  !  The  old  man  was  on  his  feet 
now  and  turned  upon  the  speaker  his  blazing  eyes. 
The  young  one  looked  at  him  with  infinite  pity  and 
indulgence  as  he  said  : 

"  You  don't  think  I  mean  Effie  ?  not  Miss  Ambrose, 
doctor!  " 

"  Who  then  ?    Curse  me  if  I've  got  one  clear  idea !  " 


STRICKEN  HEARTS.  147 

Ferd  opened  the  letter  once  more,  and  pointed  with 
his  finger  to  a  passage.  "  See  !  let  me  read  it  to  you  : 
'  Think  of  me  as  gone  to  school  again.  Only  this  time 
the  Saints  will  be  my  instructors.'  ' 

A  shudder  passed  visibly  over  Doctor  Ambrose's 
stalwart  frame.  "  Then  it  does  mean  suicide !  The 
saints  !  Oh,  my  little  girl !  " 

"It  means,"  said  Ferdinand, flinging  the  letter  down 
with  an  oath,  "  that  you  have  had  an  accursed  Mormon 
emissary  in  your  house,  and  while  you  were  mending 
her  bones  she  was  plotting  to  break  your  heart.  Not 
that  she  would  put  it  that  way !  She  knew  when  she 
looked  up  in  your  face  this  morning  so  guilelessly  that 
she  was  going  to  stab  you  in  a  vital  place  before  night, 
but  her  conscience  never  pricked  her  once !  She  believes 
that  she  was  God-sent  to  steal  your  daughter  from  you, 
and  she  has  infused  her  own  conscienceless  infatuation 
into  your  daughter's  enthusiastic  soul,  but  not  one 
throb  of  compunction  stirred  her  pulses." 

Dr.  Ambrose  broke  into  a  sudden  loud  laugh  and 
sank  down  once  more  into  his  chair. 

"  Ferd,  you  are  a  fool !  I  am  a  fool !  We're  both 
fools  !  Infernal  fools,  Ferd.  It's  all  right.  Oh  !  yes, 
it's  all  right,  Ferd." 

Ferdinand  looked  at  him  in  anxious  alarm.  Had 
reason  deserted  her  throne  so  suddenly?  The  doctor 
sighed  and  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead  with  a 
tired  gesture.  Then  went  on  in  a  quieter  voice : 


148  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  I  don't  mean  it's  all  right,  Ferd  But  you've 
relieved  me  immensely.  I  never  thought  of  the  Mor- 
mons once,  but  I  might  have  known  some  nonsense  of 
this  sort  would  seize  her  sooner  or  later.  I  see  it  all 
now,  Ferd,  but  it  can't  be  permitted,  no  sir,  it  can't 
be  permitted.  It  was  a  rash  and  foolish  act  and  a 
daring  step  to  take  without  consulting  me." 

"  What  do  you  see,  Dr.  Ambrose?  What  can't  be 
permitted?" 

"  Why  you  see,  Ferd,  that  child  has  had  a  mania  for 
reforming  the  world  ever  since  she's  been  in  it,  almost. 
She  was  trained  by  a  crank,  Ferd.  Priscilla  was  a 
crank  about  your  slaves.  If  the  slaves  hadn't  been 
emancipated  that  would  have  been  Effie's  hobby,  too. 
As  it  is,  she's  taken  up  the  Mormon  hobby.  My  pure 
darling,  my  pretty  enthusiast,  to  think  she  could  grap- 
ple with  that  monster  vice.  I'm  glad  the  Quinbys  are 
there.  She's  gone  to  see  Mrs.  Quinby,  Ferd.  Mrs. 
Quinby  was  her  best  girl  friend.  But  she  ought  to 
have  asked  me.  Maybe  I've  made  my  girl  afraid  of 
me,  Ferd.  I  didn't  want  to.  Oh  !  no,  no.  But  men 
are  such  rough  brutes,  Ferd.  And  she  was  such  a  shy 
thing.  I  didn't  quite  understand  her,  but  I  loved  her. 
Oh,  my  little  girl,  my  little  girl !  How  could  you  be 
so  foolish !  " 

Hot  tears  gushed  from  the  old  man's  eyes  in  a 
blinding  torrent,  and  his  white  head  dropped  heavily 
on  the  lid  of  the  desk  before  him.  Ferdinand  could 


S  TRICK  EN  HEAR  TS.  149 

stand  no  more.  He  could  find  no  words  of  comfort 
with  which  to  assuage  this  storm  of  grief,  and  his  own 
soul  was  stirred  with  wrathful  emotions.  He  did  not 
believe  that  Effie  had  gone  forth  fired  with  missionary 
zeal  to  rescue  others  from  the  horrible  pit  of  Mormon- 
ism.  He  had  heard  too  much  of  the  baleful  fascina- 
tion of  these  smooth-tongued  emissaries  who  come 
gliding  into  peaceful  and  happy  homes  devil-sent, 
devil-inspired  to  do  the  devil's  own  bidding,  and  leave 
them  wrecked  and  ruined  forever.  How  such  teach- 
ings could  warp  souls  as  pure  as  Effie  Ambrose's  or 
reach  minds  as  exalted,  was  one  of  the  mysteries  he 
could  not  solve,  but  that  they  had  done  so  he  accepted 
as  a  horrible  and  undeniable  fact  which  must  sooner  or 
later  force  itself  upon  Doctor  Ambrose's  comprehen- 
sion and  crush  the  frail  cockleshell  of  hope  the  poor 
old  man  had  just  launched  upon  the  troubled  waters. 
He  slammed  his  hat  over  his  eyes  and  strode  toward 
the  door.  He  would  choke  if  he  staid  there  listen- 
ing to  that  old  man's  sobs.  He  wanted  to  get  out  in 
the  night  air  where  he  could  think  better  than  seemed 
possible  in  there  where  Effie's  cruel  letter  lay  open  on 
the  desk  and  the  sound  of  her  father's  anguish  smote 
the  silence.  How  long  he  paced  up  and  down  the 
garden  walk  that  flanked  the  house,  chewing  fiercely  at 
his  unlighted  cigar,  he  never  knew.  Long  enough 
to  call  himself  a  fool  over  and  over  again  for 
letting  this  cold,  shy,  passionless  girl  get  such  quick 


150  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

possession  of  his  affections.  Long  enough  to  tell  him- 
self many  times  with  the  rash  positivism  of  disap- 
pointed youth,  whose  vision  is  concentrated  wholly 
upon  its  own  petty  organism,  that  life  was  a  failure, 
love  a  delusion,  truth  a  myth  !  Long  enough  to  grow 
calmer,  finally,  and  to  think  very  pitifully  of  the  old 
man  who  was  wrestling  alone  with,  his  sorrow.  "  I  will 
go  back  to  him  ;  but  I  can  not  comfort  him,"  he  said, 
throwing  the  cigar  he  had  chewed  to  a  remnant  far  out 
into  the  shrubbery  and  going  back  into  the  office. 

The  doctor's  chair  was  vacant.  Ferd  hoped  he  had 
gone  to  bed.  He  walked  softly,  as  one  does  involun- 
tarily in  the  house  of  mourning,  toward  the  steps 
that  led  to  the  upper  story.  Effie's  alcove  was  lighted. 
He  stopped  in  front  of  the  portiere.  Could  she  have 
come  back  suddenly?  Seized  with  remorse  had  she 
turned  back  from  New  York  to  heal  the  wounds  of 
her  own  making  ?  No  !  She  was  not  there.  It  was 
her  father!  He  was  sitting  in  the  little beribboned  chair 
where  she  always  sat,  toying  with  the  trifles  scattered 
about  the  table  at  his  elbow,  Effie's  belongings,  all 
of  them.  The  quaint  carved  paper  knife,  and  the 
Japanese  card-receiver,  and  the  flat  dish  with  violets  in 
it.  She  had  gathered  them  and  put  them  there  to 
perfume  the  room,  and  then  had  left  the  room  so 
desolate.  But  the  perfume  lingered. 

"  My  little  girl !     My  little  girl !  " 

The  words  came  with  a  moaning  sound  from  the  old 


STRICKEN  HEARTS.  151 

man's  lips  as  he  took  up  one  trifle  or  laid  down 
another.  -Ferd  crept  softly  away  again.  He  had 
never  crossed  that  threshold  by  her  permission,  he 
would  not  intrude  now.  It  was  sacred  to  her.  There 
she  had  lived  the  stainless  life  that  she  had  cast  away 
from  her  forever  under  the  influence  of  a  diabolical 
infatuation.  There  her  thoughts  and  reveries  had 
been  all  pure,  womanly,  feverish  maybe,  and  restless, 
and  craving  she  knew  not  what,  but  pure !  There  she  had 
sat  enthroned  in  dainty  sovereignty  too  far  away  and 
above  him,  he  had  thought,  for  him  to  weave  an 
aspiration  about  her,  much  less  avow  a  passion.  And 
now  !  And  now  !  He  groaned  aloud  in  his  pain.  He 
wanted  to  curse,  curse  loudly,  curse  deeply,  curse  the 
smooth-tongued  emissary  who  had  beguiled  this  girl 
whom  he  loved  to  her  own  ruin.  Curse  the  incre- 
dulity that  had  made  them  all  accept  a  serpent  for  a 
good  woman !  Curse  the  weakness  of  a  government 
that  could  tamely  abide  such  a  cancer  as  Mormonism 
on  its  body  politic !  Curse  all  the  agencies  that  had 
combined  to  bow  that  honest  old  head,  in  yonder, 
to  the  earth  with  grief  and  shame !  Curse  his  own 
impotence  to  remedy  the  evil  or  solace  the  sufferer ! 
He  went  to  his  own  room  and  flung  himself  dressed  as 
he  was  on  the  bed.  Toward  midnight  he  roused  him- 
self from  the  chilled  stupor  into  which  the  day's  event 
had  thrown  him.  The  doctor  was  his  first  thought. 
Surely  the  old  man  had  found  temporary  forgetfulness 


152  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

in  sleep  by  this  time.  He  softly  descended  the  steps  in 
his  slippered  feet.  The  light  still  burned  in  Effie's 
alcove.  Her  father  was  moving  restlessly  and  heavily 
about  the  room  now.  Ferdinand  looked  in  upon  him 
more  boldly  this  time.  He  must  be  gotten  to  bed. 
He  was  softly  pulling  down  the  shades  to  the  bay 
window  where  the  pretty  fernery  caught  the  early 
morning  sunlight.  Then  he  drew  the  heavy  inner 
curtains  from  their  cords  and  let  them  fall  in  straight, 
graceless  folds  to  the  floor.  With  awkward,  trembling 
hands  he  drew  the  portieres  that  opened  into  the  par- 
lor close  together,  pinning  them  with  clumsy  slowness. 
It  was  a  shrouding  of  the  little  alcove.  And  through 
it  all  came  the  moaning  plaint : 

"  My  little  girl  !  My  little  girl !  " 

With  a  tottering,  uncertain  gait  he  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  alcove,  softly  drew  the  sliding  door 
from  its  grooves  in  the  wall,  locked  it  and  dropped  the 
key  into  his  pocket.  It  was  a  sealing  of  Effie's  room. 
Then  he  turned  and  discovered  Ferdinand  standing  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  patiently  waiting,  fearful  of 
intruding  upon  the  sorrow  that  he  shared  so  largely. 
The  old  man's  arms  went  suddenly  outward,  as  if 
reaching  for  the  vanished  form  so  dear  to  them  both. 

"  My  little  girl !     My  little  girl !  " 

A  choking  sound.  A  reeling  of  the  massive  form. 
A  heavy  thud.  Merciful  insensibility. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
MR.  QUINBY'S  ATTITUDE. 

"  T  MEANT  to  have  taken  the  first  train  this  morn- 
1  ing,  Ferd,  but  here  I've  overslept  myself!  I 
ought  to  have  spoken  to  Maurice  !  Had  your  breakfast 
yet  ?  My  God !  I'm  a  log !  I'm  turned  to  stone  !  " 

Dr.  Ambrose  turned  an  agonized  look  up  to  where 
Ferdinand  Cosgrove  stood  by  his  bedside,  looking  at 
him  with  a  world  of  anxiety  in  his  eyes.  Powerless  to 
move  his  lower  limbs  he  clasped  his  hands  in  a  par- 
oxysm of  despair.  "  Not  paralysis,  Ferd  !  Don't  tell 
me  this  treacherous  old  body  has  failed  me  just  when 
I  had  such  fierce  need  of  all  my  energies  !  " 

"  You  have  had  a  slight  stroke,  doctor,  but  the 
doctors  all  think  you  will  recover  from  it  as  soon  as 
your  system  is  built  up  a  little.  I  am  so — 

"  The  doctors  all !     How  many  have  you  had  here  ?  " 

"As  many  almost  as  you  number  friends.  Drs. 
Taylor  and — " 

"  But  Taylor's  over  in  New  York !  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  How  could  he  get  here  since  midnight  ?     Oh !  I 


154  THE  BAR  SINISTER. 

remember,  I  remember,  Ferd.  I  remember  how,  just  as 
I  was  saying  to  myself,  don't  break  down,  don't  break 
down,  you've  got  to  go  for  Effie,  I  did  break  down 
before  I  knew  what  I  was  about.  Poor  boy,  you  look 
about  as  bad  as  can  be  yourself.  I'm  afraid  I  gave  you 
a  troublesome  night.  But  you  needn't  have  sent  for 
Taylor."  He  put  his  hand  up  to  his  chin  !  The  beard 
of  a  week's  growth  rasped  his  hand.  "  Ferd  !  Good  God  ! 
how  long  have  I  been  here?  How  many  precious 
hours  have  I  lost?  I  wanted  to  get  there  before  her 
pure  soul  had  been  contaminated  by  so  much  as  a 
breath  of  that  sin-laden  atmosphere.  Ferd  !  How  long 
have  I  lain  here  like  a  log?" 

His  mind  was  clearly  vigorously  wide  awake  at  last ! 
There  was  no  object  in  deceiving  him : 

"  Dr.  Ambrose,  it  has  been  six  days  since  that  cruel 
letter  came  !  If  you  hope  to  take  any  active  steps  in 
this  matter  you  must  be  quiet  and  obedient.  Perhaps 
in  a  week — 

"  Week !  By  the  eternal,  man,  what  do  you  think  I 
am  made  of  ?  I  must  go  for  her,  Ferd !  For  Effie! 
Don't  you  know !  Did  you  tell  Corson  ?  " 

"  I  have  told  no  one  any  thing.  But  all  Elizabeth 
knows,"  he  added  bitterly,  "  that  Miss  Ambrose  has 
left  her  home  clandestinely,  and  that  Doctor  Ambrose 
has  had  a  stroke  of  paralysis." 

"  If  it  was  the  heart,  Ferd,  that  had  turned  to  stone, 
so  much  the  better !  so  much  the  better.  But  these 


MR.  QUINSY'S  ATTITUDE.  155 

accursed  treacherous  legs,  to  fail  me  in  my  sore 
need." 

Ferdinand  made  no  answer.  Why  should  he?  That 
any  good  was  to  be  accomplished  by  Dr.  Ambrose 
following  his  daughter  up,  he  could  not  see.  She  was 
of  age,  and  the  government  under  which  she  had  taken 
shelter  was  mighty  to  shield  and  protect  all  who  con- 
fided their  safety  to  its  strong  arm.  But  he  was  not 
going  to  argue  the  point  with  the  doctor.  In  a  little 
while  he  would  see  this  whole  thing  differently.  Not 
calmly,  for  the  worst  had  not  yet  penetrated  his  com- 
prehension. As  for  himself  Effie's  image  was  so  blurred 
and  blotted  by  her  own  rash  hand  that  she  no 
longer  stood  for  the  embodiment  of  womanly  loveliness 
and  purity  that  had  won  his  most  exalted  esteem  and 
tenderness.  Almost  any  other  form  of  error  he  could 
have  condoned  !  His  pity  was  all  for  the  stricken  old 
father  who  tried  so  hard  to  shield  his  child  from  reap- 
ing the  bitter  fruits  of  her  own  folly.  A  somber  silence 
fell  between  the  two  men.  Ferdinand  was  slowly 
pacing  backward  and  forward  between  the  bed  and  the 
mantle-piece.  Glancing  toward  the  first  as  he  turned 
in  his  restless  tramp,  he  saw  the  hot  tears  forcing 
themselves  from  under  the  sick  man's  closed  lids,  and 
slowly  coursing  down  his  rugged,  furrowed  cheeks. 
With  the  tender  impulse  of  a  girl  Ferd  stooped  over 
him  and  wiped  his  wet  cheeks. 

"  Ferd !  you  know — it  won't  matter  now  if  I   say  it. 


156  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

I  had  hoped,  yes,  I  wanted  to  hope,  Ferd,  that  you 
and  Effie — you  love  her,  don't  you,  Ferd  ?  "  he  asked 
very  eagerly. 

"  I  loved  her,  sir :  I  think  I  never  loved  a  woman  so 
before." 

"  Don't  talk  as  if  it  were  in  the  past  tense,  boy !  oh  ! 
no  !  oh  !  no !  we'll  get  her  back  and  drive  all  that  mis- 
sionary nonsense  out  of  her  head.  We  mustn't  leave 
her  so  much  alone  next  time,  Ferd.  Men  are  selfish 
brutes,  you  know.  My  poor  little  girl !  My  little  girl !  " 

To  this  Ferdinand  had  no  answer.  It  was  all  in  the 
past  tense.  There  was  no  future  tense  possible  for 
him  and  Effie  Ambrose.  The  doctor  called  him  back 
to  his  bedside  as  he  walked  away  from  it  with  the 
slow,  heavy  tread  of  an  old  man. 

"  I  want  you  to  telegraph  for  me,  Ferd." 

"To  whom,  sir?  " 

"John  Quinby,  Salt  Lake  City." 

Ferdinand  took  out  his  paper  and  pencil  and  held  it 
in  readiness  for  dictation. 

"  Just  ask  him  if  Miss  Ambrose  has  reached  Salt 
Lake  City  in  safety." 

"But  suppose  he  knows  nothing  about  it?  Aren't 
you  advertising  Miss  Ambrose's  departure  unneces- 
sarily?" 

"  You're  right !  you're  right !  But  this  suspense,  boy  ! 
This  bondage !  I'll  lose  my  senses  under  it,  if  I'm  not 
even  to  know  her  whereabouts." 


MR.  QUINSY'S  ATTITUDE.  157 

"  I  might  telegraph  and  ask  if  he  knows  a  Mrs.  Lae- 
titia  Shaw." 

"  Do  it !  do  it  quickly  !  And  as  much  more  as  you 
can  ask  discreetly,  Ferd." 

So  Ferdinand  went  off  to  the  telegraph  office,  and  in 
the  course  of  several  hours  returned  with  the  result  of 
several  different  messages : 

"  Mr.  Quinby  knew  Mrs.  Shaw  well ;  she  was  an 
honored  citizen  of  Salt  Lake  City.  Yes,  she  had  returned, 
and  Miss  Ambrose  with  her!  Both  ladies  were  in  the 
best  possible  health.  Dr.  Ambrose  might  rest  assured 
his  daughter  was  with  friends." 

The  old  man  smiled  as  Ferd  read  aloud  to  him  these 
gleanings  from  the  wires.  It  wasn't  much  on  which  to 
satisfy  a  hungry  heart,  but  when  one  is  resolved  to  per- 
form the  miracle  of  the  loaves  and  fishes  for  the  benefit  of 
a  beloved  delinquent,  satisfaction  can  be  easily  procured. 
"  It  was  good  of  John  to  send  that  last  message,  Ferd. 
He  knew  I  would  be  perfectly  satisfied  to  know  she  was 
with  him  and  Anna."  Then  with  sudden  revulsion  : — 
"  D — n  Mrs.  Laetitia  Shaw  !  serpent !  ingrate !  smooth 
faced  hypocrite  ! " 

"Dr.  Ambrose,  all  unnecessary  excitement  only 
retards  your  activity  by  so  much,"  says  Ferdinand, 
startled  at  the  frenzied  energy  of  his  passion.  "If  you 
can  not  control  yourself  better  you  will  be  a  prisoner  for 
life,  instead  of  weeks." 

"  Right  !    right !    right  !    I'm    hurting   myself   worse 


158  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

than  any  body  else,  but  oh !  my  little  girl !  my  little 
girl !  " 

A  day  passed — two — three,  and  Effie's  name  had 
not  been  spoken  by  either  of  them.  Then  the  doctor 
said  suddenly,  "You  must  write  a  letter  for  me,  Ferd." 

The  hot  blood  leaped  in  a  flame  to  the  young  man's 
forehead.  He  could  not,  would  not  write  to  her ! 
"  Well,  sir  ?  "  he  said. 

"To  John  Quinby!  I  must  hear  something  more, 
Ferd,  and  I  want  to  make  things  as  right  as  they 
can  be  until  I  get  there,"  and  this  was  the  letter 
young  Cosgrove  wrote  by  dictation,  interrupted 
every  little  while  by  comments  wrung  from  the  old 
man's  aching  heart : 

"  MY  DEAR  JOHN — If  I  had  not  known  you  and  Anna 
from  the  time  you  were  children,  which  makes  me  feel 
almost  as  if  I  had  a  father's  claim  on  you,  I  could  not 
bare  my  wounds  for  your  inspection,  but  I'm  coming  to 
you  for  help,  my  dear,  and  I'm  quite  sure  of  getting  it 
from  you  both."  (Oh  yes,  Ferd,  I  know,  even  if  it 
crowds  them  a  little,  they  will  make  room  for  her.) 
"When  your  Anna  was  getting  ready  to  join  you  in 
Utah,  John,  I  laughingly  told  her  that  Effie  and  I 
would  be  coming  over  there  to  see  you  some  day,  for 
I  was  certain  nothing  short  of  a  missionary's  life 
somewhere  would  satisfy  my  girl's  fantastic  desire  to 
do  something,  she  wasn't  quite  clear  what."  (You  see, 
Ferd,  there's  where  the  sting  comes  in  !  I  believe  that 


MR.  Q UINB  Y'S  A  TTITUDE  159 

infernal  clumsy  jest  set  my  poor  little  girl  to  thinking 
of  this  very  thing).  "  I  curse  the  hour  when  I  got  off 
that  senseless  jest,  John,  and  am  willing  to  bear  my  full 
share  of  blame  for  Effie's  foolishness.  And  I  curse  too 
the  hour  when  I  opened  my  doors  to  that  viper, 
Laetitia  Shaw.  No  doubt,  it  was  her  unfolding  the  hor- 
rors of  Mormonism  to  my  dear  child,  that  wrought  her 
up  to  the  pitch  of  going  out  there  to  grapple  with  that 
awful  vice.  What  idea  or  plan  of  action  the  poor 
child  has  gotten  into  her  poor  little  head,  I  do  not 
know,  but  you  and  Anna,  I  know,  will  take  her  into 
your  safe  and  friendly  keeping  until  I  can  get  there. 
That  would  be  immediately  if  I  were  able  to  travel, 
but  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  am  confined  to  my  bed  by  a 
slight  attack  "  (call  it  slight,  Ferd,  for  he  might  happen 
to  let  Effie  see  this  letter,  you  know,  and  I  wouldn't 
have  her  made  uneasy  for  a  trifle)  "  brought  on  by  im- 
prudence. No  doubt  my  little  one  expects  to  convert 
all  the  Saints  from  the  ejrror  of  their  ways.  Tell  her  she 
will  have  to  be  very  expeditious,  for  I  shall  be  on  for 
her  very  soon."  (You  see,  Ferd,  it's  as  well  to  make 
light  of  it  with  a  view  to  sparing  her  pain.  Poor  dear, 
I  know  she's  crushed  with  remorse  and  shame,  by  this 
time.  I'm  not  going  to  say  one  word  that  can  be  con- 
strued into  a  reproach.)  "  If  I  could  know  that  she  was 
with  you  and  Anna  I  would  feel  as  well  satisfied  as 
any  thing  could  make  me  in  my  present  frame  of  mind." 
(You  know  theQuinbys  are  just  like  kin  to  her,  Ferd.) 


160  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  Don't  be  too  hard  in  your  judgment  on  my  poor  little 
girl,  John,  you  and  Anna  and  Anthony.  A  good  deal's 
to  be  said  for  the  way  she's  been  reared,  and  I  can't 
blame  myself  severely  enough  for  leaving  her  so  much  to 
herself  since  she  lost  her  aunt  and  then  Anna.  She  was 
reared  by  a  crank  whose  hobby  was  abolition.  No  doubt 
if  the  darkeys  hadn't  already  been  emancipated,  she 
would  have  found  enough  work  for  her  rash  head  and 
eager  hands  close  at  home.  As  it  is  she  has  brooded 
no  doubt  over  the  sin  of  Mormonism  until  the  desire  to 
mend  matters  has  carried  her  clear  out  of  herself 
and  away  from  her  poor  old  father,  to  do  what  she  ver- 
itably believes  is  the  Lord's  bidding."  (You  see  I  am 
being  a  little  prolix,  Ferd,  but  if  I  don't  explain 
matters  fully  she  won't,  and  they  are  liable  to  put 
wrong  constructions  on  her  conduct.)  "  Tell  Anna  I  rely 
much  on  her  common  sense,  and  she  must  exert  it 
fearlessly  to  prevent  my  foolish  girl  from  carrying  out 
any  of  her  wild  schemes  of  reformation." 

Ferd  wrote  the  dictation  conscientiously,  wondering 
all  the  while  at  the  power  for  self-deception  that  it 
evinced.  By  dint  of  obstinately  taking  one  view  of 
the  matter  Dr.  Ambrose  had  reduced  his  daughter's 
wrongdoing  and  his  own  suffering  to  a  minimum. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it,  Ferd?"  he  asked,  after 
the  letter  had  been  read  aloud  to  him. 

"  I  think  you  have  tremendous  will-power,"  said  the 
younger  man  evasively,  addressing  an  envelope. 


MR.   QUINBY' S  ATTITUDE.  l6l 

And  this  is  the  answer  that  came  back  with  due 
regard  to  promptness  : 

"  MY  DEAR  DOCTOR  AMBROSE — Mrs.  Quinby  and  I 
were  very  glad  to  hear  from  you  and  to  know  that 
there  was  even  an  indefinite  prospect  of  our  seeing  you. 
We  had  anticipated  your  wishes  by  consulting  our  own 
happiness  and  robbing  our  neighbor  of  your  daughter 
as  soon  as  we  heard  of  her  being  here.  Mrs.  Quinby, 
as  you  know,  loves  her  like  a  sister,  and  no  sooner  heard 
of  her  being  in  the  city  than  she  sent  me  to  insist  on 
her  becoming  our  guest.  Sent  me,  I  say,  for  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  that  in  spite  of  that  fund  of  common 
sense  with  which  you  accredit  her,  she  has  imported  all 
her  narrow  Eastern  prejudices  against  the  institutions 
of  this  country  and  refuses  to  have  any  thing  to  do  with 
Mrs.  Shaw,  in  spite  of  much  kindness  she  has  shown 
us,  since  she  discovered  that  Bishop  Shaw  had  other 
wives.  So,  Miss  Ambrose  is  with  us,  Mrs.  Shaw  yield- 
ing gracefully  in  view  of  the  old  friendship  and  Anna's 
piteous  pleading.  She,  Mrs.  Shaw,  is  a  woman  of  rare 
tact  and  intelligence,  absolutely  fearless  in  pursuit  of 
what  she  considers  her  duty.  As  your  lovely  daughter 
has  been  with  us  but  a  very  little  while  I  have  had  no 
opportunity  to  discover  what  her  object  in  coming 
was,  nor  what  line  of  conduct  she  proposes  to  follow  ; 
but  I  feel  confident  that  she  will  act  judiciously  and 
wisely,  and  rejoice  to  find  her  absolutely  free  from  that 
narrowness  of  soul  and  contraction  of  heart  that  mars 


162  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

so  many  of  our  best  women  reared  in  the  conventional 
schools.  Miss  Ambrose  has  utilized  her  opportunities 
for  reflection  most  admirably,  and  I  find  in  conversa- 
tion with  her  that  she  is  a  remarkably  advanced 
thinker,  age  and  sex  considered.  I  only  wish  my  dear 
Anna  was  more  like  her  in  many  respects.  No  doubt, 
now  that  she  is  on  the  spot,  she  will  be  able  to  decide 
clearly  and  finally  whether  to  accept  the  new  gospel  in 
all  its  untrammeled  excellence,  or  whether  to  do  feeble 
and  ineffectual  battle  against  an  institution  that  has 
withstood  the  shock  of  conflict  and  misconstruction  and 
odium  cast  upon  it  by  generations  of  those  whose 
prejudices  are  more  nearly  allied  to  blind  ignorance 
than  to  intelligent  conviction.  The  less  one  knows  of 
this  institution  and  its  workings,  naturally,  the  harder 
one  finds  it  to  exercise  reason  or  tolerance.  I  have 
gone  through  the  phase  myself,  and  am  free  to  say,  that 
the  result  of  patient  investigation  inclines  me  to 
leniency.  My  present  attitude  toward  Mormonism  is 
that  of  a  serious  and  unbiased  inquirer.  What  the 
final  result  will  be  lam  not  prepared  to  say.  I  hardly 
think  it  will  be  a  voluntary  resumption  of  the  old  prej- 
udices and  arrogant  sitting  in  judgment.  No  doubt  you 
are  thinking  of  your  daughter  as  environed  by  a  God- 
less, lustful  set  who  make  their  religion  a  cloak  for  a 
multitude  of  sins,  to  breathe  the  same  air  with  whom 
will  stain  the  pure  ermine  of  her  womanly  nature. 
Compare  a  few  of  their  precepts  with  those  of  your 


MR.  QUINBY'S  ATTITUDE.  163 

orthodox  Christian  and  see  if  the  Saints  lose  by  the 
comparison.  I  give  them  to  you,  as  Joseph  Smith 
gave  them  to  his  disciples  and  followers.  I  called  them 
precepts.  They  are  in  reality  articles  of  faith  of  the 
Church  of  the  Latter  Day  Saints. 

"  We  believe  in  God  the  Eternal  Father,  and  in  His 
Son  Jesus  Christ,  and  in  the  Holy  Ghost. 

"  We  believe  that  men  will  be  punished  for  their  own 
sins,  and  not  for  Adam's  transgression. 

"  We  believe  in  the  same  organization  that  existed  in 
the  primitive  church,  viz:  apostles,  prophets,  pastors, 
teachers,  evangelists. 

"  We  believe  the  Bible  to  be  the  Word  of  God,  so  far 
as  it  is  translated  correctly  ;  we  also  believe  the  Book 
of  Mormon  to  be  the  Word  of  God. 

"  We  claim  the  privilege  of  worshiping  Almighty 
God  according  to  the  dictates  of  our  conscience,  and 
allow  all  men  the  same  privilege,  let  them  worship  how, 
where,  or  what  they  may.  We  believe  in  being  honest, 
true,  chaste,  benevolent,  virtuous,  and  in  doing 
good  to  all  men.  We  follow  the  admonition  of  Paul. 
We  believe  all  things,  we  hope  all  things.  If  there  is 
any  thing  virtuous,  lovely,  or  of  good  report,  or  praise- 
worthy, we  seek  after  these  things." 

Ferdinand's  voice  was  laden  with  scornful  emphasis 
by  the  time  he  reached  Mr.  Quinby's  peroration,  which 
was  a  virtual  indorsement  of  the  precepts  he  had  been 
at  such  pains  to  transcribe.  . 


1 64  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"Curse  the  fellow!"  he  muttered,  between  clenched 
teeth  ;  "  a  pretty  wolf  to  play  shepherd  to  this  poor  old 
man's  ewe  lamb."  But  Dr.  Ambrose  only  saw  the 
twitching  of  his  long  mustache  and  the  angry  fire  in 
his  eyes. 

"  Ferd  !  "     His  voice  was  perplexed  and  troubled. 
"Yes,  sir." 

"  How  does  that  letter  of  John  Quinby's  strike 
you?" 

"  As  a  string  of  infernal  rubbish  !  " 
"  Nothing  worse  than  rubbish,  Ferd  ?  " 
"  I  don't  see  what  could  be  much  worse,  sir,  in  such 
a  case." 

"  A  defense  of  Mormonism  would." 

"  I  think  we've  got  it  here,  sir.     The  man  who  wrote 

this  letter  is  either  a  fool  or " 

"  John's  no  fool — but  finish  your  sentence." 
"  Or  he  is  about  to  adopt  Mormonism." 
"  Then  God  help  him  !     God  help  poor  Anna  !     God 
help  us  all,  Ferd,  for  the  times  are  indeed  out  of  joint !  " 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

CLASS   NO.    I. 

THE  morning  after  Mr.  Quinby  had  robbed  Mrs. 
Laetitia  Shaw  of  her  "  pet  lamb,"  as  she  tenderly 
called  Effie,  found  that  lady  bustling  about  her  pretty 
little  house  with  a  very  wide-awake  air  of  pleasurable 
anticipation.  It  was  not  the  bishop's  regular  week  at 
Elm  Cottage  (as  the  pretty  little  house  was  called,  to 
distinguish  it  from  the  bishop's  four  other  homes),  but 
in  his  anxiety  to  hear  all  about  the  fruits  of  her  trip 
East  in  the  service  of  the  Church,  he  was  anticipating 
a  little,  and  that  was  the  reason  she  had  to  bustle 
about,  for  she  had  never  yet  fallen  into  the  reprehen- 
sible habit  of  making  her  lord's  homecoming  a  thing  of 
small  moment. 

She  was  a  little  lonely  in  these  latter  days  with  the 
boys  all  married  off,  with  wives  and  homes  of  their 
own  to  lo®k  after,  and  the  bishop  so  burdened  with 
public  and  private  interests  that  she  felt  grateful  for 
not  being  defrauded  of  her  full  one-fifth  of  him,  and 
she  would  greatly  have  preferred  keeping  Effie  Am- 
brose in  her  own  home  forever ;  but  that  was  a  selfish, 
wicked  desire  which  she  repressed  with  all  the  energy 


1 66  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

of  her  well-disciplined  soul.  Mrs.  Shaw  never  allowed 
her  private  preferences  to  outweigh  the  good  of  the 
Church,  and  it  was  for  the  good  of  the  Church  and 
the  glory  of  God  that  she  labored  so  zealously  to  bring 
this  pure,  refined,  intellectual  girl  within  its  fold.  It 
was  meet  and  proper  that  she  should  place  her  where 
she  was  likely  to  fill  her  mission  on  earth  most  satis- 
factorily to  all  the  Saints.  So  she  had  given  Effie  up 
to  the  importunate  demands  of  the  Quinbyswith  some 
smiles  and  tears  commingled. 

"You  know,  Mr.  Quinby,  she  has  been  a  sweet  min- 
istering angel  to  me  now  for  two  months.  We  have 
been  together  daily,  and  I  hope  the  companionship  has 
been  sanctifying  to  us  both." 

"  I  know  it  has  been  to  me,"  Effie  had  said,  clinging 
around  the  neck  of  the  elderly  "Saint,"  "  and  I'm  only 
going  to  visit  Anna  for  a  few  days.  I  love  her  dearly 
— oh !  so  dearly,  and  the  foolish  child  won't  come  to 
me.  But  under  you,  dear  mother  Loetitia,  I  must  take 
my  first  feeble  steps  toward  the  higher,  truer  life  I  have 
come  here  to  find.  Keep  your  heart  and  home  open 
for  me." 

"  Always,  my  darling,  always.  But  remember  it  is 
under  God,  not  under  me,  a  poor  fellow-struggler,  that 
those  steps  are  to  be  taken." 

"  She  has  taught  me  what  it  is  to  love  and  to  be 
loved,"  says  Efifie,  looking  up  at  her  escort  with  wet, 
solemn  eyes  as  they  walk  away,  leaving  Mrs.  Shav/ 


CLASS  NO.   i.  I ($7 

watching  them  from  her  open  door;  and  John  Quinby 
answers  with  flippant  gallantry  that  is  entirely  lost  on 
the  rapt  young  enthusiast : 

"  I  fancy  you  will  not  lack  for  teachers  in  that  branch 
of  lore." 

Well,  Effie  was  gone,  but  the  bishop  was  coming. 
Thus  sunshine  and  cloud  chased  each  other.  And 
now,  at  last,  she  was  to  have  the  satisfaction  of 
talking  it  all  over  w-'th  the  bishop.  Dear,  dear, 
she  hoped  he  would  agree  with  her  as  to  the 
wisdom  of  having  come  back  immediately  with 
this  one  choice  convert.  Effie  Ambrose  was  worth 
a  hundred  commoner  women  to  the  Church ;  and 
there  were  so  many  dangerous  possibilities  attending 
delay  in  this  especial  instance.  John  Ambrose  himself 
was  a  creature  of  such  extremely  violent  possibilities. 
And  the  child's  resolution  might  not  have  endured  too 
long  a  strain.  And  to  have  forced  the  company  of 
other  and  coarser  recruits  upon  her  during  the  journey, 
might  have  brushed  off  the  delicate  bloom  of  that 
enthusiasm  that  was  so  rare  and  so  beautifyl.  Oh ! 
no,  it  would  never  have  done  !  She  was  quite  sure  the 
bishop  would  approve  entirely,  when  he  came  to  hear 
all  the  particulars. 

So  Mrs.  Shaw  hummed  an  ancient  ditty  in  a  crooning 
voice,  as  she  bound  fresh  ribbons  about  the  lace  cur- 
tains in  the  parlor,  and  twitched  them  into  more  grace- 
ful folds;  and  patted  the  cushions  of  the  big  chair 


j68  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

(that  no  one  ever  sat  in  but  the  bishop),  into  more 
inviting  plumpjiess;  and  ordered  baked  beans  for  din- 
ner (the  bishop  would  never  outgrow  his  fondness  for 
baked-beans — regular  Boston  baked  beans,  you  know), 
and  floating  island  for  dessert.  (It  lay  on  Mrs.  Shaw's 
conscience  rather  heavily,  that  when  Class  No.  3  had 
sent  to  her  for  directions  for  making  this  dessert,  so 
dear  to  their  liege's  palate,  she  had  simply  sent  her  the 
cooking  book,  with  a  blue  pencil  mark  about  the 
recipe,  which  was  not  exactly  the  one  she  followed.) 
She  had  so  managed  it  for  years  now  that  the  bishop's 
sojourn  at  Elm  Cottage  should  be  marked  by  a  degree 
of  calm  enjoyment  and  aesthetic  gratification  procurable 
nowhere  else,  and  calculated  to  leave  an  aroma  behind 
it  exclusively  associated  with  Class  No.  I.  No  occa- 
sion less  imposing  than  his  homecoming  warranted  the 
bringing  out  of  the  moss-bud  china  with  the  gilt- 
band,  and  the  entire  silver  service,  both  a  little  anti- 
quated now,  but  of  genteel  authenticity ;  nor  the 
temporary  displacement  of  the  dusty  pampas  plumes 
in  the  big^  vases  on  the  parlor  mantle,  to  make  room 
for  costly  roses  and  ferns  from  the  florist's  around  the 
corner;  nor  the  doffing  of  her  muslin  cap  and  the 
donning  of  her  lace  one  with  the  blue  ribbons.  Blue 
went  very  prettily  with  her  silver  white  hair,  and  the 
bishop  often  declared  she  was  the  handsomest  of  the 
lot  yet. 

Well !     There  she  had  him  at  last !     And,  as  she  sat 


CLASS  NO.  i.  169 

opposite  him  at  dinner,  extracting  much  vicarious 
enjoyment  from  the  rapid  disappearance  of  the  baked 
beans,  she  told  the  story  of  her  wanderings,  of  her 
accident,  of  her  providential  placement  in  Effie 
Ambrose's  pathway,  and  of  the  gradual  leading  of 
that  pure  soul  to  a  comprehension  and  acceptance  of 
the  teachings  of  the  new  gospel,  drawing  inspiration 
throughout  the  recital  from  her  husband's  short,  quick 
nods,  and  bland  "  Good  !  very  good  ! " 

"  And  you  see,  my  dear,  the  remarkable  coinci- 
dence of  these  two  people,  John  Quinby  and  Doctor 
Ambrose's  daughter  being  brought  together  here  in 
the  land  of  the  Saints.  Oh  !  who  can  fail  to  detect  a 
higher  agency  than  my  poor  feeble  voice?  " 
"  How  !  I  don't  exactly  catch  your  drift." 
"  Why,  this  sweet  child,  almost  unknown  to  herself, 
has  cherished  a  life-long  attachment  to  our  handsome 
young  neighbor.  I'm  quite  satisfied  that  if  Mr. 
Quinby  had  not  gotten  married  while  she  was  living 
in  Boston,  she  would  have  been  a  very  different  creat- 
ure, altogether  more  commonplace,  you  know.  It  does 
look,  don't  you  agree  with  me,  my  dear,  as  if  the  Lord 
had  arranged  to  secure  them  the  highest  earthly  good,  so 
soon  as  they  showed  a  willingness  to  accept  Him,  as 
He  is  revealed  to  and  by  His  Saints.  For,  if  I  under- 
stood you  right,  when  I  saw  you  just  before  I  left,  Mr. 
Quinby  had  become  an  earnest  seeker  after  light?" 
She  paused  with  anxious  inquiry  in  her  tones. 


1 70  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"Yes!  oh,  yes.  Quinby's  all  right — or  at  least  in 
the  right  road.  But  about  this  previous  attachment 
business.  How  did  you  find  all  that  out?  I  take  it, 
from  what  you  tell  me,  that  this  girl  is  the  sort  that 
would  shy  off  from  any  clumsiness  or  coarseness." 

"  I  hope  I  am  incapable  of  either,"  Mrs.  Shaw 
answers  with  just  indignation.  "  But  how  can  I 
describe  the  process  of  turning  a  child's  heart  inside 
out,  examining  it  and  then  turning  it  right-side  out, 
and  move  just  precisely  as  one  would  the  fingers  of  a 
glove." 

"  Skilled  labor,  I  suppose !  "  says  the  bishop,  divid- 
ing his  attention  impartially  between  his  wife  and  the 
floating  island,  with  that  diffusion  of  affection  which 
had  come  easy  by  long  exercise. 

"  Now  then  !  "  she  said,  a  while  later  on,  when  her 
husband  was  finally  installed  in  the  big  chair,  the  pic- 
ture of  placid  content.  "  Let  me  hear  your  side  of  the 
story." 

The  bishop  picked  his  teeth  ruminantly  for  a 
moment  or  two.  She  was  quite  willing  to  wait  until 
the  spirit  moved  him  to  revelation.  They  under- 
stood each  other  so  thoroughly  well,  and  they  had 
long  ago  gotten  rid  of  that  friction  that  belongs  to  the 
impetuous  ardor  and  bungling  impatience  of  youth. 
His  most  prolonged  attacks  of  silence  never  discon- 
certed her.  Her  hands  were  never  empty  of  some- 
thing in  which  she  could  take  refuge.  A  pair  of  baby 


CLASS  ArO.   i.  171 

socks  to  be  crocheted  gave  them  occupation  now,  while 
the  bishop  ruminated.  They  were  for  her  eldest  son's 
oldest  child.  The  blue  of  the  big  ball  of  yarn  in  her 
lap  made  a  bright  spot  of  color  on  her  black  silk  dress. 
The  long  ivory  needle  was  scarcely  whiter  than  her  long, 
slender  fingers.  The  excitement  of  telling  about  her 
trip  with  its  momentous  results  had  flushed  her  cheeks 
to  a  rosy  tint.  Her  blue  eyes  expressed  serene  joy  in 
the  happiness  of  the  present  moment.  Altogether, 
the  bishop  was  inclined  to  think  that  the  best  he  got 
out  of  life,  he  got  at  Elm  Cottage,  and  from  Class  No.  i. 

"  Wife  Laetitia,"  he  said  impressively,  extending  a 
gracious  hand  and  laying  it  on  her  lap,  "you  are  a 
most  satisfactory  wife  and  a  pillar  of  strength  to  the 
Church  !  You  have  done  well,  exceedingly  well.  And 
you  deserve  the  commendation  of  the  Saints." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  no!  no!  I  trust  I  have  been  found 
useful,  but  I  am  but  an  humble  handmaiden  ready  and 
willing  to  do  the  Master's  bidding  as  seemeth  best  to 
Him.  I  would  like  very  much  to  hear  your  views  con- 
cerning Mr.  Quinby.  It  is  from  the  ranks  of  the  en- 
lightened and  educated  that  we  desire  to  recruit.  He 
would  be  a  most  desirable  acquisition." 

"  I  am  hopeful !  very  hopeful!  We  have  had  many 
long  and  satisfactory  conferences  together.  He  un- 
doubtedly began  the  investigations  in  the  spirit  of 
scoffing  incredulity  so  common  to  the  unbeliever.  But 
I  believe  he  is  ready  to  accept,  provided— 


172  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  Provided  what,  husband  ?  " 

.  "That  no  shock  to  his  extreme  fastidiousness  should 
be  involved." 

"Then  I  thank  God  that  I  have  been  able  to 
remove  the  last  stumbling-block  from  his  pathway. 
This  dear  lamb  that  I  have  brought  into  the  fold  will 
complete  the  good  work  already  begun,  my  dear.  It 
is  plain  to  be  seen  that  the  Lord's  hand  is  in  it." 

"  Doubt-less ! "  says  the  bishop,  splitting  the  word 
in  two  syllables  with  a  protracted  yawn,  after  which 
he  sank  peacefully  into  his  post-prandial  slumber, 
while  Mrs.  Shaw  patiently  and  gratefully  fanned  the 
august  brow  that  was  all  her  own  to  cherish — for  a 
little  while  to  come  at  least. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  BLOW  DESCENDS. 

MRS.  Quinby,  sitting  alone  in  her  pretty  library- 
some  few  weeks  after  Miss  Ambrose  had  become 
her  guest,  engaged  in  the  unprofitable  task  of  idly 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  an  old  photograph  album, 
was  suddenly  reminded  that  to-morrow  was  John's 
birthday,  and  she  was  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  make 
amends  to  him  for  some  very  childish  outbursts  that 
she  had  given  way  to  almost  involuntarily  lately. 
True,  her  health  was  some  excuse  (if  there  ever  was 
an  excuse  for  a  woman  being  perfectly  hateful  and 
unreasonable,  she  said  to  herself,  accusingly).  But  she 
was  ashamed  and  remorseful  and  lonely,  being  all  of 
which,  an  old  photograph  album  with  its  melancholy 
reminders  and  dismal  suggestions  of  change  and  loss, 
was  any  thing  but  an  engaging  companion. 

She  was  ashamed,  because  in  the  presence  of 
Anthony  and  Effie  Ambrose,  the  one  of  whom  had 
looked  at  her  with  compassionate  indulgence,  and  the 
other  with  grave  surprise,  she  had  that  morning 
launched  into  a  fierce  and  uncalled-for  philippic  against 
the  institution  of  Mormon  ism,  declaring  it  pollution 


174  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

to  breathe  the  atmosphere  of  such  a  place,  and  a  great 
deal  more,  stung  into  expression  by  the  bolder  and 
bolder  defense  of  it  that  her  husband  was  constantly 
setting  up  of  late.  She  was  remorseful,  because  she 
eagerly  assured  herself  that  she  might  have  known 
John  was  only  saying  those  awful  things  to  tease  her, 
and  the  more  temper  she  displayed  the  more  teasing 
she  was  apt  to  get. 

She  was  lonely,  because  John  and  Effie  and  Anthony 
had  all  gone  to  a  concert  together,  but  she  had  never 
yet  achieved  that  degree  of  maternal  equanimity 
that  would  enable  her  to  enjoy  any  thing  when  baby 
was  at  home  with  nobody  but  Barbara.  It  is  true 
baby  had  proudly  achieved  his  second  birthday  anni- 
versary, but  he  was  baby  yet.  Anthony  would  have 
staid  to  let  her  go.  He  was  always  ready  to  sacrifice 
his  pleasure  for  hers,  but  she  wasn't  attuned  to  music 
any  way  on  this  night,  and  then — and  then,  it  might 
have  looked,  you  know,  as  if  she  were  not  willing  for 
John  to  take  Effie  anywhere  unless  she  was  along  too. 
And,  of  course,  she  was  willing — quite  willing.  She 
hoped  she  did  not  have  one  grain  of  hateful  common- 
place jealousy  in  her,  that  sort  that  made  a  person  a 
burden  to  himself  and  to  every  body  else  !  She  was 
glad  Effie  was  with  them.  Really  glad,  though  she 
couldn't  in  the  least  understand  why  any  pure,  good 
woman  should  come  to  this  vile  place  voluntarily.  She 
never  talked  about  her  reason  for  coming.  She  never 


THE  BL 0 IV  DESCENDS.  1 75 

talked  about  her  father !  She  was  the  most  shut-up 
creature  that  ever  had  lived  any  how.  She  supposed 
that  missionary  craze  had  died  out  by  this  time  and 
Effie  was  too  much  ashamed  to  allude  to  it.  She  sup- 
posed she  would  go  quietly  home  with  her  father,  when 
he  came,  and  no  one  would  ever  drag  an  expression  of 
opinion  from  her.  Whenever  the  subject  of  Mormonism 
was  introduced,  as  it  had  been  that  morning,  Effie's 
face  would  become  as  white  as  marble  and  about  as 
rigid,  and  her  eyes  would  glow  like  furnaces;  but  her 
lips  preserved  a  stony  composure.  She  was  so  terribly 
intense.  She  would  butter  a  biscuit  with  such  a  tragic 
air  of  earnestness.  But  on  the  whole — yes,  on  the  whole 
— she  (Anna)  was  very  glad  to  have  her  there. 

"  Very,  very,  very  glad  !  "  by  token  of  which  Mrs. 
Quinby  burst  into  sudden  and  unaccountable  tears, 
bedewing  the  open  album  on  her  lap  to  the  great 
detriment  of  the  first  picture  of  John  she  had  ever 
owned,  the  one  he  had  given  her  when  they  first 
became  engaged.  The  laughing  eyes  in  the  picture 
mocked  at  her  silly  tears  and  she  dried  them  with  the 
gusty  energy  that  seemed  to  sway  all  her  movements 
this  evening. 

Suddenly  Barbara,  handsome,  stolid,  statuesque, 
stood  in  the  doorway,  her  yellow  plaits  lying  rigidly 
over  her  bosom  on  either  side  of  her  head,  and  her 
cold  blue  eyes  flashing  furtive  scorn  at  the  mistress's 
weakness.  For  under  the  yellow  glory  of  hair  in  which 


176  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

Barbara  took  such  pardonable  pride,  was  a  very  acute 
intelligence,  and  under  the  tight  white  bodice  on  which 
the  plaits  reposed  was  a  heart  not  nearly  so  sluggish  as 
the  unthinking  thought.  She  saw,  understood,  and 
despised  every  one  of  those  tears. 

"He  don't  seem  to  breathe  quite  right,"  she  said,  not 
offering  to  advance  any  further  than  the  open  door. 

Mrs.  Quinby  sprang  up  in  anxious  alarm.  "  He  " 
was  the  baby.  In  the  two  years  she  had  been  his 
nurse,  Barbara  had  never  been  heard  to  call  him  any 
thing  else.  Anna  pushed  by  the  girl  and  sped  up  stairs 
to  the  baby's  cradle.  This  heavy  breathing  alarmed 
her.  A  hot  fever-flush  was  on  his  smooth  little  cheeks 
and  the  tiny  lips  were  parted  and  crimsoned,  as  he 
panted  heavily  for  breath.  What  should  she  do  !  Not 
a  soul  within  call  but  Barbara,  and  she  worse  than 
no  one !  No  one  to  go  for  a  doctor!  Baby  might  die 
before  that  terrible  concert  was  over  !  Awful  thought 
— suppose  he  should  die  with  his  father  at  a  public 
entertainment  !  Help  !  Oh  !  where  should  she  turn  ? 
Mrs.  Shaw?  She  had  taken  a  solemn  oath  that  no 
Mormon  woman  should  ever  cross  her  threshold  with 
her  knowledge  or  consent.  Should  she  keep  her  oath 
and  let  her  baby  die?  There  was  one  compromise 
possible.  She  would  send  Barbara  to  ask  Mrs.  Shaw 
for  remedies  until  a  doctor  could  be  procured  !  That 
would  be  an  insult !  Barbara  was  too  big  a  fool  to  be 
entrusted.  A  last  resource :  she  must  go  herself. 


THE  BLOW  DESCENDS.  1 7 7 

Her  voice  was  strung  to  a  pitch  of  agonized  pleading 
as  she  asked :  "  Barbara,  will  you  watch  baby  very 
carefully  until  I  run  over  to  Mrs.  Shaw's  and  tell  her 
about  him?  Mr.  Quinby  may  not  be  home  for  half 
an  hour,  and  we  can't  get  a  doctor  before  he  comes." 

"  Go  !  "  was  all  the  girl  said,  as  she  planted  herself 
by  the  crib  head. 

"  Don't  try  to  rouse  him,  Barbara.  There  may  not  be 
much  the  matter.  Maybe  it's  only  measles.  They're 
not  dangerous,  you  know.  But  I  always  get  so  fright- 
ened." She  stooped  and  laid  her  lips  to  the  hot  baby 
brow,  then  with  an  appealing  look  at  Barbara  flew 
down  stairs  all  bareheaded  as  she  was.  The  opening 
of  the  front  door  let  in  a  rush  of  fresh  air,  that  forced 
her  to  think  of  her  unprotected  head  and  shoulders. 
A  loose  raglan  of  her  husband's  hung  on  the  hall  rack 
and  the  little  stiff  felt  hat  that  Effie  wore  in  her  long 
morning  walks.  She  seized  and  put  them  both  on. 
No  one  would  see  her.  That  part  of  the  town  was 
almost  deserted  after  nightfall.  Mrs.  Shaw's  was  just 
diagonally  across  the  corner.  What  floods  of  brilliant 
moonlight  illumined  the  earth !  It  was  almost  as 
light  as  day.  The  double  row  of  shade-trees  that 
bordered  both  sides  of  the  street  cast  somber  shadows 
earthward,  but  above  was  one  liquid  sea  of  silver  light. 
She  almost  ran  down  the  steps  in  her  feverish  haste  to 
get  help  for  her  darling,  then  shrank  back  in  alarm. 
She  heard  footsteps.  Suppose  some  rude,  prowling 


178  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

man  should  be  passing  !  She  peered  cautiously  from 
beyond  the  heavy  stone  pillar  that  rose  from  the  lower 
step.  These  people  had  already  passed.  It  was  a 
man  and  a  woman.  They  seemed  to  be  sauntering 
rather  than  walking  with  a  specific  object.  The  woman 
leaned  heavily  on  the  man's  arm.  Anna  emerged  boldly 
into  the  moonlight.  Their  backs  were  turned  toward 
her  now,  and  both  heads  bent  in  earnest  conversation. 
She  cast  a  look  of  idle  curiosity  toward  the  retreating 
figures,  then  stood  as  one  turned  to  stone.  It  was 
John — her  husband.  It  was  Effie  Ambrose — her 
friend.  Like  a  hunted  creature  she  turned  her  tortured 
eyes  now  from  them,  now  toward  them.  They  would 
turn  presently  and  find  her  watching  them.  Whatever 
else  happened  that  must  not.  They  would  never  know 
why  she  was  there,  "  spying  on  them,"  they  would 
call  it.  With  one  bound  she  was  on  the  street  side  of 
the  tree-box  that  encircled  the  thick-bodied  elm 
immediately  in  front  of  her  door.  She  had  no  thought 
of  her  errand.  No  thought  of  her  baby.  No  thought 
of  her  own  light  slippered  feet  planted  in  the  wet 
grass  that  edged  the  sidewalk.  Her  one  thought  was 
to  be  concealed  until  they  should  bring  their  earnest 
consultation  to  a  close  and  disappear  within  doors. 
The  end  of  the  block  reached,  they  faced  toward  her. 
It  seemed  an  eternity  before  they  reached  the  door 
step  in  their  slow  absorption.  She  could  catch  their 
voices — catch  their  words — John's  voice  and  Effie's 


THE  BLOW  DESCENDS.  1 7 g 

voice.  Oh!  monstrous  treachery  !  Oh  !  cruel  betrayal 
of  her  trust  !  How  distinctly  the  merciless  night  air 
gave  the  tender  words  and  the  passion  laden  tones  of 
John's  voice  to  her  startled  ears. 

"  I  love  you,  my  darling,  and  God  has  brought  you  to 
me  almost  miraculously.  You  believe,  do  you  not — " 

Then  the  footsteps  drowned  the  voice  once  more  as 
the  two  sauntered  past  the  house  again.  The  wretched 
wife  clung  to  the  slats  of  the  tree-box  for  support. 
What  was  it  to  her  that  John,  her  husband,  the  father 
of  her  child,  was  there  within  reach  of  her  hand,  within 
sound  of  her  voice,  for  her  to  bid  him  fetch  help  for 
their  baby  ?  Should  she  ever  call  his  name  again  ? 
Should  she  ever  again  lay  her  hand  on  the  arm  that 
other  woman  was  clinging  to  now,  as  she  only  had  a 
right  to  do  ?  Would  he  dare  ever  to  raise  his  treach- 
erous eyes  to  her  face  again  ?  No !  no !  no !  ten 
thousand  times  no  !  They  were  coming  again  !  They 
ncarcd  her  ambush  once  more!  More  slowly,  with 
lingering  reluctance  to  end  what  was  so  sweet,  they 
walked  toward  her  again.  Again  the  voices  above 
the  foot-falls. 

"  Then  your  heart  has  laid  by  its  fears.  There  will 
be  no  more  shrinking?" 

"  None,  John  !  with  God's  help  I  will  be  to  you  a 
true  and  loving  wife,  to  her  a  true  and  loving  sister." 
How  calm,  how  clear,  how  sweet  her  voice! 

"  My  precious  bride!    My  own  !  " 


l8o  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

Then  side  by  side  they  mounted  the  steps  and 
passed  into  their  house.  "Her  home  I  Her  defiled 
home ! "  she  almost  shrieked  the  words  aloud  in  her 
agony.  Like  a  homeless  outcast  she  crept  from  behind 
the  tree-box  at  last,  and  dragged  herself  up  the  stairs 
like  a  wounded  animal.  All  recollection  of  why  she 
had  come  down  those  steps  had  faded  from  her  mind. 
She  peered  timidly  through  the  lace  that  draped  the 
glass  of  the  front  door  before  fitting  her  latch-key 
into  it.  What  if  she  should  meet  them  on  entering ! 
Her  hand  trembled  like  a  drunkard's  as  she  fumbled 
for  the  key-hole !  If  she  could  only  get  to  her  room- 
get  to  baby !  She  would  wrap  him  up  and  fly  with 
him !  All  fevered  as  he  was  she  would  fly  with  him. 
It  would  kill  him — it  would  kill  her !  All  the  better — 
the  quicker  the  better!  Then  John  would  not  have 
to  risk  his  soul  to  gratify  his  passion.  Bah  !  To  cloak 
it  under  the  name  of  religion  !  Did  God  reign  and  let 
puny  man  so  insult  His  majesty !  She  was  back  in 
her  own  room.  No  sound  but  her  own  faltering  foot- 
steps as  she  dragged  herself  back  up  the  stairs  had 
disturbed  the  silence  of  the  darkened  house.  Barbara 
was  asleep  at  the  head  of  the  crib.  No  matter!  She 
stood  over  her  child's  cradle,  conscious  of  nothing  but 
the  desire  to  fly  with  him.  She  was  too  tired — strangely 
tired !  She  was  tottering  now — she  did  not  believe  she 
could  hold  him.  No  matter — she  would  be  rested  by 
daybreak,  then  they  could  fly — Tony  would  help  her 


THE  BLOW  DESCENDS.  1 8 1 

get  away  with  baby  !  The  fever  flush  had  deepened, 
and  the  poor  little  head  was  tossing  from  side  to  side  ! 
No  matter!  She  could  get  a  doctor  now  for  the  asking. 
John  was  in  the  next  room.  He  did  not  like  to  sleep 
in  the  room  with  baby  of  late.  He  said  a  man  that 
had  to  work  all  day  didn't  want  to  be  disturbed  of 
nights.  Ah!  well,  they  wouldn't  disturb  him.  She 
did  not  touch  the  tiny  sufferer  with  hand  or  lip.  "  It 
might  chill  you,  you  know,  darling  !  Mother  is  turned 
to  ice !  "  No  matter !  She  walked  slowly  away  from 
the  cradle  toward  the  fireplace.  A  few  coals  were 
smoldering  yet  in  the  grate  !  She  dropped  on  the  rug 
in  exhaustion,  and  clasping  her  hands  about  her  knees, 
fastened  her  burning  eyes  upon  the  smoldering  coals. 
The  fire  in  the  grate  would  die  out  presently,  and 
leave  nothing  but  gray  cold  ashes  in  its  stead  !  Gray 
cold  ashes  every  where — gray  cold  ashes  in  her  heart — 
gray  cold  ashes  in  her  home — the  world  all  turned 
to  gray  cold  ashes  !  Hope — love — truth — purity — 
honesty,  all  turned  to  gray  cold  ashes!  No  matter! 
Nothing  mattered !  She  heard  the  clock  strike  twelve 
and  one  and  two  !  She' shivered  with  cold  !  No  matter! 
Barbara,  cramped  and  uncomfortable  in  her  chair, 
roused  herself  with  a  start,  and  gazed  guiltily  about 
her.  How  long  had  she  slept?  There  was  the  lamp 
burning  low.  The  fire  had  gone  out !  The  mistress 
sitting  with  clasped  hands  and  wide  strained  eyes  on 
the  hearth,  gazing  fixedly  into  the  cold  black  grate. 


l82  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

The  girl  bent  over  the  sick  baby's  crib.  Its  breath 
came  in  gasping  moans !  She  stole  softly  over  to  the 
silent  watcher  on  the  hearth.  The  dim  lamp-light 
showed  her  the  wide-open  eyes. 

"  He  don't  seem  no  better,"  she  said,  in  what  was  a 
pitying  voice  for  her. 

"  No  matter  !  " 

The  strange  answer  made  Barbara  stare !  Then  she 
straightened  herself  from  her  stooping  posture,  and 
said  brutally,  as  she  walked  toward  the  door : 

"  If  it  don't  matter  to  you,  I'm  sure  it  don't  to  me," 
and  went  away  to  conclude  the  night  in  comfort. 

The  clock  struck  three — and  four — and  five!  She 
did  not  hear  it !  She  did  not  feel  the  pain  of  her  own 
miserable  body  !  She  did  not  hear  the  writhing  contor- 
tions of  the  little  forsaken  one  over  yonder  in  the  crib, 
as  convulsion  after  convulsion  seized  the  tiny  form, 
with  no  pitying  hand  near  to  wipe  the  white  froth  from 
the  poor,  purpled  lips,  nor  the  drops  of  anguish  and  ex- 
haustion from  the  clammy  little  forehead  !  The  cold 
gray  light  of  morning  sent  its  first  pallid  ray  through 
the  unshuttered  window — she  took  no  note  of  it ! 
There  was  a  rustling  as  of  the  wind  through  leafless 
trees !  She  did  not  feel  it !  She  did  not  know  when 
the  angels  of  love  and  pity  entered  that  cold,  dark 
chamber,  and  spreading  their  wings  tenderly  over  the 
cradle  of  her  first-born,  whispered  to  him,  "  When  thy 
father  and  mother  forsake  thee,  then  the  Lord  will 


THE  BLOW  DESCENDS.  183 

take  thee  up,"  and  bearing  the  pure  little  soul  aloft  on 
their  pinions  left  her  bereaved  indeed !  The  world 
awoke  to  a  new  day.  No  matter  !  There  was  nothing 
in  it  for  her !  There  was  a  strange  confusion  of  feet 
and  voices  all  about  her !  She  was  lifted  in  strong 
arms — they  were  his  arms !  She  shuddered  and 
wrenched  herself  free — she  heard  his  voice  saying  that 
their  baby  was  dead  —  she  heard  him  heaping  re- 
proaches on  her  for  not  summoning  him.  No  matter  ! 
She  tottered  toward  the  cradle  where  the  little  cold, 
still  form  lay.  So  beautiful  and  peaceful  is  death — so 
hideous  and  cruel  is  life.  How  good  the  angels  had 
been  to  her  baby  !  They  asked  her  some  meaningless 
questions,  some  expression  of  her  wishes  was  demand- 
ed. She  turned  stonily  away  from  the  cradle.  Did 
she  understand  ?  Yes  ;  she  understood  all  they  were 
saying,  but  no  matter !  She  went  away  from  them  and 
locked  herself  in  with  God ! 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

COMFORT  AND   MERCY. 

AND  then  the  devils  of  discord,  distrust,  hatred  and 
jealousy  entered  in  and  took  possession  of  that 
home.  And  before  very  long  there  came  an  hour 
when,  up-stairs,  wan  of  face,  broken  of  spirit,  rebel- 
liously  accusing  God  of  having  forgotten  the  world  of 
his  own  creation,  lay  a  wife  awaiting  the  hour  of  wo- 
man's sorest  travail  with  no  voice  but  that  of  a  hireling 
to  bid  her  be  of  good  cheer.  God  seemed  too  far  off 
for  His  tender  promises  of  help  in  the  hour  of  need  to 
reach  her  ;  while  down  stairs  a  husband,  torn  with  con- 
flicting emotions  of  pity  and  anger  and  anxiety,  sullenly 
awaited  the  hour  when  he  could  decently  force  upon 
the  victim  of  his  ruthless  treachery  the  subject  of  his 
unalterable  decision  to  be  sealed  to  a  second  wife. 

Two  weeks  had  passed  since  their  little  Abbott  had 
been  laid  away  in  the  Gentile  cemetery,  and  John 
Quinby  had  so  far  been  unable  to  gain  admittance  to 
his  wife's  presence.  Anthony,  his  tender  heart  sur- 
charged with  grief  for  them  both,  had  been  a  patient 
but  unsuccessful  mediator  between  them.  Through 


COM  FOR  T  AND  MERC  Y.  \  85 

him  Mr.  Quinby  learned  how  his  wife  had  become  pre- 
maturely informed  of  his  monstrous  intentions. 
Through  him  Anna  had  sent  the  defiant  message  that 
forbade  him  her  presence.  "  Tell  him,"  she  had  said, 
"  to  send  me  word  that  he  has  repented  of  his  sin  and  I 
will  forgive  it  and  try  to  forget  it,  though  it  has  cost 
me  my  darling's  life.  If  he  can  not  or  will  not,  tell  him 
never  to  ask  me  to  look  upon  his  face  again.  I  will  go 
back  to  my  mother  as  soon  as  I  can  gather  strength  to 
leave  my  bed !  Go  back  and  leave  him  free  to  wreck 
another  woman's  life ;  "  which  despairing  utterance  had 
only  made  Mr.  Quinby's  lip  curl  with  bitter  scorn  as  he 
answered :  "  Tell  her,  that  I  will  never  do.  I  do  not 
repent  of  what  she  is  pleased  to  call  my  sin.  I  pur- 
pose carrying  out  my  promise  to  Miss  Ambrose  as 
soon  as  it  can  be  done  with  decent  regard  for  my  re- 
cent bereavement.  And  as  for  her  threat  to  return 
East,  that  depends.  If  the  child  we  are  looking  for 
shall  survive  the  tragic  performances  of  its  mother,  she 
will  have  to  take  the  choice  of  giving  it  up  and  return- 
ing East  alone,  or  remaining  to  accept  the  conditions  of 
wifehood  and  motherhood  as  God  Himself  has  imposed 
them  upon  her.  That  is  my  ultimatum." 

And  thus  matters  had  stood  ever  since.  She,  bruised, 
brooding  over  her  wrongs,  shrinking  from  the  tender- 
est  touch  !  He,  quiescent  with  a  sullen  masterfulness ; 
irritable  and  defiant  of  opposition  !  Anthony,  in  whose 
crippled  body  a  knightly  soul  found  lodgment,  torn 


1 86  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

with  righteous  wrath  against  the  brother  between 
whom  and  himself  had  always  existed  more  than  a  full 
measure  of  brotherly  love,  and  yet  yearning  with  in- 
finite pity  over  the  shattered  happiness  of  their  little 
home  circle  !  While  across  the  way,  safe  under  the 
shelter  of  Mrs.  Shaw's  brooding  wing,  drinking  in 
comfort  from  those  well-disciplined  lips,  EfHe  Am- 
brose, the  pure  victim  of  an  unholy  hallucination, 
bided  her  time,  serene  in  the  conviction  that  she  was 
doing  her  duty  by  accepting  the  lot  appointed  her  as 
a  vessel  chosen  to  honor,  patiently  awaiting  the  sac- 
rificial hour ! 

Opposite  each  other,  as  they  had  sat  through  so 
many  happy,  peaceful  hours  of  companionship  in  the 
old  Elizabeth  home,  John  and  Anthony  Quinby  smoked 
their  cigars,  now  with  only  an  outer  semblance  of  the  old 
inner  peace.  They  were  both  vaguely  conscious  that 
the  tangled  destinies  of  three  lives  lay  infolded  in  the 
grasp  of  an  unborn  child  !  The  quietness  of  a  suspense 
that  would  admit  of  no  pretense  had  held  them  spell- 
bound for  a  long  time.  Anthony  breaks  the  spell  : 

"  John,  if  I  should  allow  cowardice  to  seal  my  lips 
to-night  may  I  never  hope  for  happiness  on  earth  nor 
forgiveness  .in  heaven,"  he  says  with  startling  abrupt- 
ness. 

"  You  were  never  counted  a  coward,  Tony,"  the 
younger  brother  answers  with  a  disarming  smile,  "  you 
used  to  fight  my  battles  and  your  own  too." 


COMFORT  AND  MERCY.  187 

"  Don't  try  to  soften  my  mood,  John  !  I  want  to  be 
merciless!  It  is  your  battle  I'm  aiming  to  fight  now, 
John." 

"  That's  well  meant  of  you.  But  don't  you  think 
I'm  perhaps  quite  able  to  fight  my  own  now?  I  might  ac- 
cept of  you  as  an  ally  but  hardly  as  a  champion  !  " 

"  Not  when  you  have  the  devil  for  an  adversary  and 
he  has  his  citadel  in  your  own  heart,"  says  Anthotiy, 
answering  the  question  and  ignoring  the  proffered 
truce. 

"  You  claim  to  wield  weapons  then  against  so  formid- 
able a  foe  ?  "  John  asked,  looking  across  at  his  brother 
with  a  mocking  laugh.  But  his  light  shafts  of  ridicule 
glanced  harmlessly  from  the  strong  armor  of  fierce 
earnestness  in  which  his  brother  had  arrayed  himself  to 
do  battle  against  the  powers  of  evil. 

"John,  I  am  to  be  deterred  from  my  purpose  by  neither 
flattery  nor  ridicule.  Things  have  got  to  a  point 
where  silence  is  criminal.  I  command  you  to  pause  and 
ask  yourself  what  will  be  the  end  of  this  monstrous  step 
that  you  propose  taking?  You  are  piling  up  such  a  heri- 
tage of  woe  and  misery  for  your  posterity  that  I  stand  ap- 
palled at  the  audacity  of  the  act.  I  will  not  plead  for 
Anna.  Poor  child  !  her  happiness  is  already  a  wreck 
and  her  heart  broken.  I  do  not  plead  for  you ;  you 
well  deserve  the  full  bitterness  of  the  cup  your  own 
hand  has  flavored.  I  do  not  plead  for  myself ;  what 
becomes  of  me  is  neither  here  nor  there.  Nor,  do  I 


1 88  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

ask  one  thing  for  that  infatuated  girl,  who  has  helped 
you  make  a  wreck  of  your  own  home,  after  breaking 
the  heart  of  the  noblest  old  man  who  ever  suffered  for 
a  fool's  folly.  You  and  she  deserve  all  that — 

"  Stop  !  not  one  word  touching  Effie  !  Confine  your 
abuse,  if  your  tongue  must  wag,  to  me.  But  leave 
that  pure,  sweet  woman's  conduct  to  be  judged  by  One 
who  sees  not  as  man  sees.  But  bear  this  in  mind, 
Anthony.  Even  you  may  go  too  far." 

Anthony's  face  had  grown  deadly  white,  and  then 
purpled  with  passion  during  this  short  speech. 

"  No  !  I  can  not  go  too  far,  John,"  he  said,  as  soon 
as  he  was  sure  of  his  voice.  "  You  were  once  a  gen- 
tleman. It  was  the  recollection  of  that  time  that  im- 
pelled you  just  now  to  shield  Miss  Ambrose's  name. 
Your  conscience  has  made  a  coward  of  you  !  It  was 
cowardice  that  furnished  you  with  that  taunt,  that 
falls  blunted  and  pointless.  You  shall  listen  to  me 
to-night,  even  if  your  wrath  makes  a  Cain  of  you.  I 
should  like  to  compel  you  to  answer  me  some  ques- 
tions. That  I  suppose  I  can  not  do?"  He  paused 
expectant. 

"  As  many  as  you  please,"  said  John,  writhing  with 
remorse  for  the  taunt  he  had  flung  at  the  brother  whose 
helpless  condition  should  have  made  him  sacred. 
"  Forgive  me  my  boorishness." 

"  When  did  you  first  become  interested  in  the  ac- 
cursed institution  of  Mormonism?" 


COMFORT  AND  MERCY.  189 

"  Don't  ask  conundrums !  I'm  not  prepared  to 
answer  them.  I  have  had  my  eyes  and  ears  open 
ever  since  I  have  been  living  here.  I  believe  it  to  be 
the  part  of  common  sense  to  divest  one's  self  of  all  prej- 
udice that  springs  exclusively  from  ignorance.  I 
seriously  determined,  long  ago,  to  investigate  this 
thing  called  Mormonism.  In  my  business  relations  I 
have  "been  thrown  in  direct  contact  with  many  of  the 
leading  minds  of  this  community.  We  all  know  that 
for  the  past  twenty-eight  years  the  question  of  Mor- 
monism has  been  a  factor  in  American  politics." 

"  Say  rather,"  Anthony  interrupted  with  fierce 
energy,  "  we  all  know,  that,  for  more  than  twenty- 
eight  years,  Mormonism  has  been  the  bar-sinister  on 
the  'scutcheon  of  State  !  " 

John  shrugged  his  shoulders  derisively  and  went  on. 
"  So,  naturally,  as  a  man  of  some  intelligent  curiosity, 
I  applied  myself  to  the  task  of  solving  my  own  doubts 
concerning  its  evil  influence  and  corrupting  ten- 
dency." 

"  Well,"  says  Anthony,  impatient  of  this  meager 
admission. 

"  Well !  I  did  not  propose  to  enter  on  a  defense  of 
Mormonism,  nor  on  a  defense  of  myself.  I  thought 
you  had  the  floor  to-night.  It  is  safe  for  you  to  con- 
clude from  the  position  I  have  lately  assumed,  and 
mean  to  maintain,  that  I,  at  least,  have  found  nothing 
evil  or  corrupting  in  that  influence." 


190  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  No,  sir,  by  Heaven,  it  is  not  safe  to  conclude  that  ! 
It  is  safe  to  conclude,  that  having  settled  here  and 
found  your  greed  of  money-making  growing  with  what 
it  feeds  on,  you  propose  to  stay  \vhere  success,  worldly 
success,  marks  every  effort  you  make  !  It  is  safe  to  con- 
clude that  an  unholy  passion  has  overtaken  you,  when 
you  were  so  situated  that  you  could  gratify  it  without 
making  yourself  amenable  to  the  law,  and  that  you  pro- 
pose to  do  so.  You  may  deceive  that  self-deluded 
girl,  John  !  You  may  deceive  the  corrupt  and  infatu- 
ated creatures  about  you,  who  license  debauchery  and 
legalize  lust !  You  may  even  try  to  deceive  yourself, 
but  you  can  not  deceive  me  !  You  can  not  deceive 
God  !  You  can  not  deceive  that  heart-broken  wife  up 
stairs !  " 

The  younger  man  rose  to  his  feet  with  blanched 
cheeks  and  eyes  that  glowed  with  murderous  passion. 
He  made  one  step  forward !  then  his  clenched  fist  fell 
powerless  by  his  side  !  Anthony's  eyes  never  left  his 
face,  and  his  voice  was  absolutely  under  control  when 
he  said  : — 

"You  may  strike,  John,  and  strike  to  kill,  but  hear 
me  out  first  you  shall.  Until  eighteen  months  ago, 
when  I  brought  your  wife  and  son  on  here,  I  knew 
absolutely  nothing  about  Mormonism.  I  knew,  of 
course,  that  it  existed  to  the  everlasting  shame  of  the 
United  States  Government.  I  knew,  that,  as  far  back 
as  '56,  slavery  and  polygamy  were  coupled  theoreti- 


COMFORT  AND  MERCY.  191 

cally  as  twin  relics  of  barbarism.  I  offered  my  life 
freely  to  help  abolish  the  one  and  I  would  gladly,  ay, 
only  God  knows  how  gladly,  I  would  offer  up  this  poor 
remnant  of  a  body  to  help  crush  out  the  other.  I 
knew  that  it  was  a  cancer  gnawing  at  the  life  of  the 
nation.  I  knew,  in  the  abstract,  that  it  had  wrought 
misery  for  thousands  of  men  and  women  ;  but  what  I 
did  not  know,  John,  was  that  it  was  possessed  of  a 
diabolical  subtlety,  and  a  devilish  sophism  that  could 
pervert  a  man's  whole  moral  and  mental  organism,  and 
make  him  see  things  as  right,  which  in  his  normal  con- 
dition, he  would  pronounce  as  black  as  hell  itself ! 
Your  own  case — you  were  a  man  of  reason — you  were 
a  man  with  a  nice  sense  of  honor — you  were  a  kind 
husband  once  and  an  affectionate  brother!" 

"Personal  abuse  is  not  argument !  Confine  yourself 
to  the  text!"  John's  voice  was  coarsely  resentful.  He 
writhed  under  this  lashing,  but  the  mad  impulse  to 
punish  Anthony  for  his  freedom  of  speech  had  passed 
away  forever  with  that  one  threatening  gesture. 

"  Perverted  indeed  must  your  nature  be,  John,  when 
you  can  say  you  see  nothing  '  evil  in  its  influence/  nor 
'corrupting  in  its  tendency.'  It  was  founded  in  cor- 
ruption and  nourished  by  men's  most  evil  passions. 
Its  pathway,  from  the  hour  of  its  inception  up  to  the 
present  one  of  its  giant  growth,  has  been  marked  by 
inhumanities,  butcheries,  and  abominations  of  every 
stripe.  It  has  taught  that  murder  can  be  committed 


192  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

to  advance  the  cause  of  the  Church,  and  that  its  fol- 
lowers may  lie  in  its  defense  ! 

"And  how  a  man  reared  in  a  Christian  land  in  an  en- 
lightened age  whose  chief  glory  is  the  exaltation  of  its 
women,  can  bow  to  the  body  and  soul-debasing  teachings 
of  this  infernal  sect,  passes  my  comprehension  !  Woman 
nature  in  Utah  is  woman  nature  the  world  over.  Do 
you  believe  that  one  in  one  thousand  of  the  women 
that  have  been  forced  into  this  accursed  mode  of  life, 
are  other  than  utterly  wretched  ?  Your  own  case 
again  !  You  say,  that  if  the  child  we  are  looking  for 
lives,  its  mother — poor  little  Anna,  I  wish  she  had  died, 
John,  before  you  ever  crossed  her  path ! — must  take 
her  choice  of  giving  it  up,  or  clinging  to  it  and  to  you 
too.  You  will  lay  this  hard  alternative  upon  her  when 
her  heart  is  torn  and  smarting  from  the  loss  of  her 
darling  son.  It  requires  no  prophet  to  tell  how  she 
will  decide.  The  mother  instinct  is  the  strongest  in 
her  nature.  Your  brutal  ultimatum,  backed  up  by  yet 
more  brutal  laws,  will  give  you  the  victory,  a  victory 
that  I  wish  you  joy  of — a  victory  of  wrong  over 
right — a  victory  of  man's  brutality  over  woman's 
helplessness — a  victory  of  malice  over  misery!  John, 
you  were  a  mere  b.oy  when  the  civil  war  broke  out,  but 
I  have  seen  your  cheek  flush  and  your  eyes  flash  fire 
over  the  wrongs  of  the  down-trodden  slaves  of  the 
South, — you,  who  are  lending  the  strength  of  your 
matured  manhood  to  enslave  the  women  of  your  own 


T  A  XD  MERC  Y.  1 93 

race  in  a  bitterer,  more  degrading,  more  soul-consum- 
ing bondage  than  ever  a  Southern  black  groaned  under ! 
And  that,  too — God  of  power  and  justice,  how  canst 
Thou  permit  such  things! — in  the  name  and  under  the 
cloak  of  religion  !  Bah !  my  soul  sickens  at  it  all." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  white  and  trembling,  and 
passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead  with  a  despairing 
gesture. 

"Have  you  finished?"  his  brother  asked  with  a 
sneering  laugh. 

"  Not  quite,  John.  I  have  this  one  thing  more  to 
say." 

John  leaned  insolently  back  in  his  chair,  stretched 
his  limbs  leisurely  and  lighted  a  fresh  cigar,  saying: 

"At  least  you  will  acquit  me  of  impatience,  I  hope." 

"  I  want  to  ask  you,  John,  to  turn  back  before  it  is 
too  late.  Let  us  go  back  to  the  States,  brother,  you 
and  poor  little  Anna  and  I,  before  it  is  too  late  !  Let 
us  go  back  to  the  dear  old  home  in  Elizabeth  where  we 
were  all  so  happy  together  and  take  up  the  sweet  old 
placid  life  before  it  is  too  late !  Women  are  so  forgiv- 
ing, John.  Anna  will  come  to  thank  God  for  taking 
little  Abbott  away  from  her  if  it  was  the  means  of  mak- 
ing you  stop  to  think.  You'll  get  rich  fast  enough 
over  there,  John.  Let  me  go  to  Miss  Ambrose  for 
you — 

"  Stop !  once  more  let  me  warn  you  that  even  you 
may  go  too  far.  Now  then,  since  you  have  been  so 


194  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

flattering  as  to  allude  to  my  '  brutal  ultimatum/  let  me 
give  you  another  ultimatum,  which  you  are  at  liberty  to 
classify  as  you  please.  Not  one  word  that  you  have 
said,  or  can  ever  think  to  say,  will  in  anyway  affect  my 
unalterable  decision  to  live  my  life  to  suit  myself.  A 
few  days  will  decide  the  case  between  Mrs.  Quinby  and 
myself.  If  you  will  recognize  that  I  am  the  master  of 
my  own  affairs,  my  own  house  and  my  own  family,  all 
the  bosh  you  have  talked  to-night  will  be  forgotten, 
and  we  will  be,  what  we  always  have  been,  the  very 
best  of  friends  and  brothers.  I  have  been  uncom- 
monly patient  with  you,  Tony,  during  your  long 
tirade,  recognizing,  above  every  thing  else,  that  you 
meant  well.  But  such  evenings  as  this  wouldn't  bear 
repeating,  in  fact,  must  never  be  repeated.  Whether 
Mrs.  Quinby  remains  here  or  goes  East  you  are  always 
welcome  to  a  home  with  me.  You  can  decide  at  your 
leisure." 

And  Anthony  knew,  without  taking  leisure  to  decide, 
that  if  Anna  staid  he  would  stay  too  ;  for  whom  had 
she  on  earth  beside  him  to  lean  upon  in  those  dark 
days  of  her  soul's  travail — those  days  so  terrible  for 
them  all  ? 

And  even  while  he  pleaded  with  his  brother  yet  once 
more  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  honor  and  duty  and 
reason,  above  them,  in  the  darkened  chamber,  where 
Anna  had  kept  herself  and  her  anguish  shut  away  from 
earthly  eyes  ever  since  the  night  of  her  little  Abbott's 


COM  FOR  T  AND  MERC  Y.  195 

death,  the  "wise-woman"  who  was  her  sole  attendant 
bent  to  tell  her  that  two  more  little  souls  had  entered 
upon  their  earthly  pilgrimage  !  Two  baby  girls  were 
waiting  for  her  to  take  up  once  more  the  ministry  of 
motherhood  !  Two  little  hearts,  waiting  to  warm  her 
own  chilled  one  back  into  life  and  love  and  gladness! 
Two  tiny  mortals,  consigned  to  her  to  make  or  mar 
with  wise  skill  or  clumsy  unskill.  Two  tiny  ambas- 
sadors fresh  from  the  realms  of  light,  bringing  mes- 
sages of  tenderness  and  mercy  from  the  Chastener !  And 
she  opened  every  portal  of  her  soul  to  give  them  ingress ! 
"  Call  one  Comfort  and  the  other  Mercy !  "  she  said, 
a  smile  of  ineffable  sweetness  lighting  her  wan  face  ; 
and  then  she  closed  her  eyes  for  very  weakness,  leaving 
the  wise-woman  to  ponder  what  manner  of  woman  this 
could  be,  who  could  fasten  such  remnants  of  puritanic 
nomenclature  upon  two  innocent  babies. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE   DEDICATION    OF  A   LIFE. 

WHEN  the  venerable  physician  who  had  been  Mrs. 
Quinby's  almost  daily  attendant  for  six  weeks 
came  to  pay  her  his  final  visit,  he  held  her  wasted  hand 
in  both  his  own  for  a  silent  moment  and  then  asked  : 

"  My  dear,  have  you  a  father?  " 

"  No  !  "  with  a  quick,  dry  sob. 

"  Perhaps  a  mother  whom  you  do  not  care  to  burden 
with  a  sorrow  she  can  not  heal." 

"  I  expect  to  see  her  very  soon.  I  have  only  been 
waiting  for  your  permission  to  undertake  the  journey." 

"  Physically,  you  will  be  able  in  a  few  more  weeks." 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly  if  not  resentfully. 
What  right  had  he  to  emphasize  the  word  physically, 
as  if  he  knew  of  other  impediments  to  her  freedom  of 
action  ?  Did  he  know?  Did  all  the  city  know  ?  Her 
wan  face  flushed  crimson.  Poor  child !  she  did  not 
know  that  her  heart,  all  bruised  and  bleeding  with  its 

o 

man-made  wounds,  had  been  to  his  long  practiced  eye 
no  more  than  an  open  tablet,  blurred  and  blotted  but 
easily  deciphered.  Twenty  years  of  medical  practice 


THE  DEDICATION  OF  A  LIFE.  197 

in  Salt  Lake  City  had  made  him  wise  in  the  sorrowful 
lore  of  aching  hearts,  ruined  lives,  darkened  homes,  and 
broken  ties.  The  sullen  reserve  of  the  husband  down 
stairs  and  the  absence  of  all  wifely  eagerness  on  her 
part  to  have  him  share  her  anxieties  or  her  rejoicing,  had 
told  him  in  the  first  days  of  his  ministration  that  the 
tragedy  so  common  in  that  fatal  atmosphere  was  being 
enacted  afresh  in  the  home  of  the  Quinbys,  and  his 
tender  heart  was  full  of  sympathy  for  the  woman  who 
bore  her  great  burden  with  such  pathetic  dignity. 

"  Then  perhaps,  my  dear,"  he  went  on,  his  great  soul 
illumining  his  benevolent  face,  "  you  will  let  an  old  man 
say  a  few  words  not  strictly  within  the  line  of  his  pro- 
fessional duty." 

She  nodded  her  assent ;  unshed  tears  swam  in  her 
eyes  and  swelled  in  her  heart  and  choked  her  voice. 

"  It  is  best  to  have  it  out,  my  child!  Sometimes 
when  we  force  the  suffering  that  is  crushing  our  soul 
into  the  very  dust  to  our  lips,  it  brings  relief  in  an 
unexpected  shape.  Some  ray  of  light  may  stream  into 
the  darkened  chambers  of  the  heart,  through  a  window 
accidentally  opened  !  Some  chance  word  may  pierce 
the  armor  of  the  adversary  where  we  least  suspected  a 
vulnerable  spot.  But  come  what  may,  try  to  think  that 
God  never  lays  a  burden  on  us  too  heavy  to  be  borne. 
Try  to  believe  that  earth  has  no  sorrows  that  heaven 
can  not  heal.  Try  with  all  the  might  of  your  soul  to 
say  '  His  will  be  done.'  " 


198  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  Consenting  to  suffer  will  not  annul  the  suffering, 
doctor." 

"True,  true,  true!  you  have  been  good  to  let  me 
speak  so  to  you  and  I  thank  you."  And  it  was  after 
this  talk  that  Anna  had  asked  her  brother-in-law  to  tell 
her  husband  that  she  would  see  him  that  evening. 
John  Quinby  blanched  to  the  very  lips  when  the  mes- 
sage was  delivered,  and  the  hand  that  was  holding  his 
after-dinner  coffee  cup  trembled  visibly.  Anthony 
looked  eagerly  into  his  brother's  handsome  face,  its 
beauty  marred  of  late  by  a  moody  unrest  in  striking 
contrast  to  the  genial  good  humor  of  his  old  expres- 
sion. Perhaps  that  blanching  of  his  face  and  the 
tremor  in  his  hand  indicated  a  faltering  in  his  head- 
long race  to  ruin.  John  interpreted  that  anxious  look 
of  inquiry  correctly  and  answered  it  with  one  of  such 
flashing  defiance  that  Tony  silently  cursed  himself  for 
a  fool  in  hoping  for  any  loop-hole  of  escape  for  them 
all. 

Since  that  long  and  stormy  interview  that  had 
resulted  in  nothing  but  heartburnings  all  around,  the 
subject  of  their  domestic  affairs  had  never  been  in- 
truded between  the  brothers.  Both  consciously  looked 
at  each  other  and  held  constrained  intercourse  with 
each  other  over  a  stone  wall  of  partition,  that  only  one 
of  them  was  powerless  to  demolish,  and  he  would  not. 

When  Anna  heard  her  husband's  quick  foot-fall — that 
in  the  olden  days  had  been  of  itself  enough  to  set  her 


THE  DEDICATION  OF  A  LIFE.  199 

pulse  bounding  joyfully — approaching  the  door  so  long 
forbidden  him,  all  the  blood  in  her  veins  seemed  to 
rush  in  one  red  current  to  her  pallid  cheeks,  deserting 
them  as  suddenly  and  settling  in  a  full,  palpitating  flood 
about  her  strained  and  aching  heart. 

She  sat  quite  motionless  as  he  came  toward  her 
with  outstretched  hand  and  a  brave  show  of  the  old 
eager  love  in  his  splendid  eyes.  She  looked  so  inex- 
pressibly lovely  with  her  pretty  yellow  hair  gathered 
loosely  behind  her  small,  delicate  ears,  her  large  blue 
eyes  fastened  upon  him  with  a  passion  of  longing  in 
their  tender  depths,  and  her  sweet  lips  quivering  as  he 
had  seen  them  quiver  many  a  time  under  a  hasty  word 
from  him,  that  he  could  kiss  into  such  quick  oblivion. 
He  stretched  out  his  arms  with  an  imploring  gesture 
now.  He  wanted  to  gather  her  into  them  ;  he  wanted 
her  to  rest  her  poor  tired  head  on  his  bosom  as  she 
had  once  loved  so  well  to  do  !  He  wanted  to  talk  to 
her  about  the  little  son  that  had  gone  away  from  them, 
and  the  little  daughters  that  had  come  to  comfort. 
They  had  wept  over  the  one  and  rejoiced  over  the 
others  apart.  That  was  not  as  it  should  be !  The 
little  grave  in  the  Gentile  cemetery  was  theirs  in  com- 
mon !  The  baby  girls  (who  by  his  command  were 
brought  to  him  every  morning  in  the  library  before  he 
went  to  his  office),  with  their  quaint  names  and  appeal- 
ing helplessness,  were  theirs  in  common.  Their  tears 
of  sorrow  for  the  one  and  their  smiles  of  welcome  for 


200  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

the  others  should  commingle.  He  said  to  himself,  and 
wanted  to  say  to  her,  that  she  had  never  been  dearer  to 
him  than  at  that  moment.  But  beyond  that  first  be- 
traying glance  of  hungry  desire  (that  by  a  stupendous 
exercise  of  will-power,  marvelous  in  such  a  fragile-look- 
ing thing,  had  suddenly  petrified  in  stony  impassive- 
ness)  he  might  as  well  have  been  in  the  presence  of  a 
marble  statue  for  all  response  he  won.  He  stopped  in 
front  of  her.  His  arms  fell  heavily  to  his  sides.  He 
extended  his  hand  formally  ;  her  own  remained  tightly 
clasped  about  each  other.  He  flushed  crimson,  laughed 
awkwardly,  sat  abruptly  down  in  the  nearest  chair,  and 
asked  petulantly: 

"  Haven't  you  a  word  for  me,  Anna,  after  banishing 
me  your  presence  for  more  than  a  month  ?  Ton  honor, 
if  I'm  entitled  to  nothing  else  I  am  to  your  thanks  for 
my  docile  obedience.  I  am  sorry  to  find  you  looking 
so  thin.  You  must  not  let  the  little  girls  consume 
you.  I  want  to  see  you  plump  and  rosy  once  more." 

"What  for?  Why  do  you  want  to  see  me  'plump 
and  rosy  once  more,'  John  ?"  She  made  the  common- 
place inquiry  with  tragic  earnestness.  She  leaned  for- 
ward with  breathless  eagerness  to  catch  his  response. 
Perhaps  he  had  come  to  make  it  all  right — to  tell  her 
she  should  once  more  enter  her  kingdom  in  undisputed 
sovereignty.  Perhaps  he  was  going  to  roll  away  the 
stone  that  was  crushing  out  her  heart's  life! 

"'What  for!'     Upon  my  soul  you   ask  queer  ques- 


THE  DEDICA  TION  OF  A  LIFE.  2OI 

tions.  I  want  to  see  you  plump  and  rosy,  because  I 
dorit  want  to  see  you  scraggy  and  pallid.  I'm  not 
partial  to  scrawny  wives." 

Wives ! 

She  flinched  at  this  use  of  the  plural,  which  had  been 
entirely  inadvertent  on  his.  part.  Reheard  the  short, 
quick  gasp  of  pain ;  saw  the  sudden  pallor  of  death 
sweep  over  the  sweet,  worn  face,  and  yet  kept  on  his 
way  relentlessly.  He  would  let  the  word  stand  for  an 
opening  wedge  to  the  understanding  he  and  she  must 
come  to  before  he  left  the  room.  There  was  always 
this  source  of  comfort  open  to  him :  the  more 
tragically  a  woman  took  any  trouble  at  first  the  more 
complete  was  her  final  surrender  to  a  will  stronger  than 
her  own,  whether  it  was  of  God  or  man.  He  wondered 
if  she  was  purposely  leaving  the  line  of  attack  with 
him.  Was  it  tactics  or  confusion  that  kept  her  so 
mute  when  he  had  expected  a  tornado  of  reproach  ? 
These  dumbly  resistant  women  were  the  most  difficult 
of  all  to  cope  with. 

"You  have  selected  a  most  unbecoming  style  of 
morning  dress,"  he  said,  assuming  an  easy  marital  tone, 
when  the  necessity  to  say  something  pressed  him  im- 
peratively. "You  know  I  dislike  black  off  the  street. 
I  hope  you  don't  mean  it  for  mourning!  I  disapprove 
of  '  putting  on  black '  for  any  one,  but  for  so  young  a 
child  as  our  little  Abbott  "- 

"  I  did  not  put  it  on  for  Abbott ! " 


202  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

There  was  no  faltering  of  her  voice  over  her  lost 
darling's  name,  though  it  was  the  first  time  it  had 
passed  her  lips  since  she  gave  him  up.  Her  baby's 
death  seemed  like  a  mere  summer-cloud  that  had  been 
chased  out  of  sight  by  the  swift  rising  storm  whose 
reverberating  thunders  and  lurid  lightnings  had  shaken 
her  soul  to  its  very  depths. 

"  Did  not  put  it  on  for  Abbott !     For  whom  then  ?  " 

"  For  the  husband  I  lost  on  the  same  night !  I  shall 
never  wear  any  thing  else." 

"  What  infernal  nonsense  you  are  talking !  " 

He  sprang  angrily  from  his  chair,  and  with  his  hands 
thrust  far  down  into  his  trowser  pockets  strode  savagely 
backward  and  forward. 

"Is  it  nonsense,  John?  Oh,  prove  it  to  me,  and  let 
me  help  you  call  me  '  fool,  fool,  poor  self-deluded  fool ! ' 
Prove  to  me  that  my  place  in  my  husband's  heart  has 
not  been  usurped !  Prove  to  me  that  my  home  has  not 
been  defiled !  Prove  to  me  that  my  husband  has  not 
made  wreck  of  his  honor  and  my  happiness  at  one  fell 
swoop !  Prove  to  me  that  the  sweet  supremacy  of 
my  wifehood  has  not  been  tampered  with !  " 

"  I  can  not  prove  to  you,  Anna,  that  your  place  in 
your  husband's  heart  has  never  been  usurped,  unless 
you  will  take  my  simple  word  of  honor,  dear,  that  you 
were  never  more  precious  to  me  than  you  are  at  this 
moment.  As  your  home  never  has  been  in  the  past, 
nor  ever  will  in  the  future  risk  defilement  through  act 


THE  DEDICA  TION  OF  A  LIFE.  203 

of  mine,  your  second  exhortation  is  meaningless.  As 
for  the  wreck  of  my  honor  and  your  happiness,  so 
long  as  the  anchor  of  mutual  affection  holds  good,  we 
need  fear  no  storms  nor  rocks!  "  So  speciously  were 
his  words  chosen  that  a  sudden  glow  suffused  the  poor 
chilled  heart  of  the  wife  only  too  eager  to  piece  together 
the  shattered  idol  and  cement  it  with  her  penitent 
tears.  "  As  for  supremacy — a  man's  first  wife  here,  you 
know,  Anna,  is,  by  right  of  priority,  in  a  certain  sense 
always  supreme." 

She  rose  majestically  to  her  feet.  With  one  hand 
pressed  against  her  heart  as  if  to  still  the  pain  that 
threatened  to  snap  the  strained  cords  in  twain,  she 
pointed  to  the  door. 

"  Go  !  I  was  weak  enough  to  believe  you  incapable 
of  persistence  in  so  mad  a  scheme !  I  was  weak 
enough  to  think  that  you  and  I,  who  have  been  so 
happy  in  the  past  that  we  might  well  have  been  joined 
by  God's  own  hand — could  not  be  put  asunder  by  man 
or  devil  !  I  was  weak  enough  to  hope  that  you  could 
and  would  yet  ward  off  the  fatal  necessity  you  have 
laid  upon  me.  Words  are  so  absolutely  useless 
between  us,  that  I  don't  see  why  I  stand  here  string- 
ing the  senseless,  impotent  sounds  together.  But  I 
want  never  in  the  future  for  it  to  be  possible  that 
either  one  of  us  should  be  able  to  say  there  was  a  mis- 
take. A  mistake  now,  John,  would  be  the  worst  of 
crimes.  Your  position,  as  I  understand  it  ?  " 


204  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

She  paused  for  him  to  define  it !  It  was  as  if  roy- 
alty waited  for  guilt  to  plead  why  sentence  should  not 
be  passed  upon  it !  He  took  refuge  in  brutal  direct- 
ness : 

"  My  position  is  that  of  a  recent  convert  to  the 
tenets  of  the  new  gospel,  a  discussion  of  which  it  is  not 
necessary  for  us  to  enter  into.  My  intention  is  to  go 
through  the  Endowment  House  with  Miss  Ambrose 
this  day  week.  I  said  that  it  was  not  necessary  for  me 
to  enter  into  a  discussion  of  the  tenets  I  have  recently 
given  my  allegiance  to  ;  but  it  is  necessary  to  give  you 
one  by  way  of  showing  you  your  own  duty,  as  clearly 
defined  by  the  great  Law-giver :  '  It  is  the  duty  of 
every  woman  to  give  other  wives  to  her  husband,  even 
as  Sarah  gave  Hagar  to  Abraham,  but  if  she  refuse 
them  it  shall  be  lawful  for  the  husband  to  take  them 
without  her  consent,  and  she  shall  be  destroyed  for  her 
disobedience.' " 

Anna's  lips  had  twitched  convulsively  while  he  was 
speaking  and  her  teeth  chattered  audibly.  She  looked 
at  him  a  moment  after  he  ceased,  then  asked  slowly : 

"  Do  you  believe  that  to  be  a  Divine  command?*'' 

"  I  am  no  theologian  !  I  have  neither  time  nor  incli- 
nation to  sift  the  Book  of  Mormon  through  the  fine- 
wired  sieve  of  prejudiced  criticism.  When  I  accepted 
the  new  gospel,  I  accepted  it  in  its  entirety,  and  I  am 
willing  to  be  guided  by  its  teachings." 

"  Even  when  it  teaches  you  to  trample  under  foot 


THE  DEDICA  TION  OF  A  LIFE.  205 

all  that  is  best  in  your  own  nature — all  that  is  pure  in 
woman's  nature — all  that  is  true  and  good  and  beau- 
tiful in  life  !  Even  when  it  teaches  you  to  make  a 
mock  of  virtue  and  a  scoff  of  chastity!  " 

"  When  it  does  all  that  it  will  be  time  to  enter  upon 
its  defense.  I  believe  we  were  agreed  that  our  individ- 
ual positions  should  be  defined  beyond  the  possibility 
of  any  mistake  in  the  future.  I  hope  I  have  made 
mine  quite  clear." 

"Yes,  quite  clear,  quite  clear — oh,  so  hideously 
clear,  that  the  marvel  is  we  can  stand  one  moment 
longer  in  each  other's  presence,  John,  looking  at  each 
other  with  the  same  eyes,  talking  to  each  other  with 
the  same  voices,  that  served  once  to  woo  us  forward 
to  this  dreadful  hour." 

She  sank  back  among  the  cushions  white  and  ex- 
hausted. 

He  got  up  to  go  away  from  her.  They  had  both 
stood  all  they  could  stand  for  one  time.  She  under- 
stood him.  She  raised  a  detaining  hand  imperatively. 

"  Stop !  It  does  not  end  here,  John." 

He  resumed  his  seat  with  sullen  acquiescence.  Pres- 
ently she  began,  in  a  low,  intense  voice  that  vibrated 
with  the  ground-swell  of  her  mighty  passion  : 

"  My  position  is  that  of  a  betrayed  woman,  a  sup- 
planted wife!  I  have  not  one  word  of  reproach  for  the 
woman  who  has  helped  you  work  this  woe  for  all  of 
us,  for,  if  it  was  in  you  to  do  this  thing,  I  care  not  who 


206  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

your  partner  in  guilt  may  be.  I  ask  nothing  from 
your  hands,  in  future,  but  the  means  to  take  me  back 
to  my  own  home.  I  will  go  back  there  and  take  up  my 
broken  life,  and  make  of  it  whatever  God,  my  God, 
— not  the  false  idol  you  and  your  paramour  have  set 
aloft,  and  bow  before  with  lying  lips  and  sin-stained 
hearts — shall  bid  me  make  of  it.  I  will  take  my  babies 
and  go  away  from  you  and  leave  you  as  free  as  the  air, 
John — ay,  free  to  marry  a  hundred  wives,  if  that  be 
your  lustful  ambition.  I  will  go  away  and  dedicate 
the  remainder  of  my  days — may  God  in  his  mercy  make 
them  few  in  number — to  stamping  out  this  foul  blot  on 
our  country's  fair  fame !  I  will  go  back  and  tell  them 
that  they  who  say  Monnonism  is  not  a  curse,  lie ! 
That  they  who  say  it  does  not  brutalize  both  men  and 
women,  lie  !  That  they  who  say  women  accept  it  as 
a  Divine  command  and  live  placid  lives  under  it,  lie  ! 
I  will  go  back  and  tell  them  that  those  who  say  the 
devils  themselves  are  not  purer  and  better  than  these 
western  Saints,  lie  !  " 

Like  a  pythoness  aroused,  she  stood  before  him  with 
crest  erect  and  eyes  darting  flames  of  righteous  wrath 
upon  the  man  who  had  sworn  to  love  and  to  cherish 
her,  and,  forsaking  all  others,  to  cleave  only  unto  her 
until  death  did  them  part. 

"All  this  and  more  you  can  do,"  he  answered, never 
once  faltering  in  his  evil  purpose,  "so  soon  as  you 
see  fit." 


THE  DEDICA  TION  OF  A  LIFE.  207 

"  And  when,"  she  turned  and  pointed  toward  the 
crib  where  on  one  pillow  nestled  two  little  golden 
heads,  "  when  they  grow  older  and  they  shall  ask  me 
to  tell  them  of  their  father,  as  children  will,  you  know, 
John,  what  shall  I  say  to  them?" 

"  They  will  never  have  to  take  me  at  your  valua- 
tion." 

"  How?     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  They  will  learn  to  know  me  by  daily  association 
with  me.  You  can  not  take  my  children  with  you." 

In  the  cruel  emphasis  laid  upon  that  little  word  of 
two.  letters  he  condensed  all  the  law  and  the  gospel. 

"  Have  you  the  right?" 

"  I  have  both  the  right  and  the  might." 

"  And  will  exercise  it?" 

"  Most  unflinchingly." 

With  the  cry  of  a  hunted  animal  she  sprang  past 
him,  and  spreading  her  arms  over  the  cradle  that  held 
her  sleeping  babes,  sank  slowly  to  her  knees.  Her 
head  dropped  upon  the  pillow  by  theirs.  A  long  flut- 
tering sigh  escaped  her  tortured  lips,  and  then  she 
sank  to  the  floor  insensible. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

TWO  CLOUDS. 

IT  is  a  fatal  sign  when  a  man  finds  it  necessary  to  be 
perpetually  assuring  himself  that  he  is  quite  satis- 
fied with  any  course  he  has  entered  upon  without  the 
entire  approval  of  his  own  conscience.  And  John 
Quinby  found  himself  involved  in  this  species  of 
moral  combat  at  the  very  moment  when  he  was  pre- 
paring to  extract  the  fullest  amount  of  satisfaction 
from  the  storied  sweetness  of  his  second  honeymoon. 

And  yet  it  would  have  been  hard  for  a  superficial 
observer  to  have  pointed  to  one  thing  amiss  in  the 
pretty  cottage  (mercifully  aloof  from  the  spot  where 
Anna  brooded  over  her  wrongs  in  sullen  acceptance  of 
her  burden)  to  which  he  had  carried  his  new  wife 
direct  from  the  Endowment  House. 

Certainly  a  man's  most  artistic  cravings  must  be 
satisfied  with  the  display  of  unerring  taste  and  dis- 
ciplined refinement  that  entered  into  every  detail  of 
Effie's  home-keeping,  making  of  the  cottage  a  veritable 
house  beautiful.  Carrying  the  intenseness  that  was 
part  of  her  very  being,  into  the  placing  of  a  chair  or 
the  draping  of  a  window  curtain,  she  aimed  to  make 
the  humblest  means  subserve  the  most  exalted  ends. 


TWO  CLOUDS.  .  209 

It  was  a  perpetual  ministry  of  mind  unto  matter, 
and  she  would  arrange  a  dish  of  flowers  for  the  break- 
fast table,  or  pin  a  carnation  to  her  husband's  coat 
lapel  with  the  sweet  solemnity  of  a  priestess  perform- 
ing her  vows. 

Now,  while  Iphegenia,  ministering  in  the  spacious 
realms  of  Barbary,  or  Aphrodite  in  her  temple,  seen 
through  the  mythological  mists  of  the  centuries,  may 
be  pleasing  objects  of  contemplation,  a  priestess 
behind  one's  own  tea-tray  is  another  and  less  agreeable 
subject  for  consideration,  and  a  man  must  be  in  a  far 
more  highly  etherealized  condition  mentally  and 
morally  than  Mr.  Quinby  was,  to  exist  comfortably  in 
such  a  rarefied  atmosphere. 

But  as  the  possession  of  a  second  wife  was,  in  itself, 
a  somewhat  uncommon  condition  for  the  new  made 
convert,  he  supposed  it  would  be  rather  jarring  on  the 
sensibilities  to  have  the  conditions  of  their  daily  life 
any  more  commonplace  than  they  already  were. 
There  was  no  danger  of  the  fatal  element  of  disgust 
attending  upon  satiety  in  the  presence  of  a  woman 
like  his  wife  Effie.  So,  perhaps,  things  were  about  as 
well  as  could  be,  and  he  was  quite  satisfied  with  his 
experiment — would  not  undo  it  if  he  could.  While 
s"he,  thoroughly  and  humanly  in  love  with  her  hand- 
some husband,  hoping  to  find  in  him  an  active  and 
able  coadjutor  in  all  the  good  work  she  was  laying  out 
to  do  among  the  degraded  women  about  her,  saw 


210  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

nothing  amiss,  recognized  but  two  clouds  in  her  serene 
skies. 

"  You  know,  dear,"  she  said  in  one  of  the  many 
harangues  on  the  subject  to  which  she  invited  Mr. 
Quinby's  languid  attention,  "to  whom  much  is  given 
much  will  be  expected.  I  have  been  so  peculiarly 
blessed  in  the  mental  conditions  that  have  environed 
my  own  searching  after  the  truth  and  the  light,  that  I 
feel  constrained  to  return  it  in  some  shape  or  other  to 
my  less  fortunate  sisters.  So  many  of  these  poor 
women  about  us,  John,  are  laboring  either  under  a 
total  misapprehension  of  the  sacrificial  nature  of  such 
a  sealing  as  ours,  or  are  content  to  close  their  eyes 
entirely  to  the  beauty  of  the  celestial  marriage  by 
remaining  unsealed,  thereby  incurring  the  doom  of 
perpetual  servitude  in  this  world  and  the  next."  * 

"  I  must  protest,  Effie,  against  your  mixing  yourself 
up  with  outside  matters  too  freely,"  says  Mr.  Quinby, 
with  aristocratic  Gentile  repugnance  to  a  too  demo- 
cratic saintliness.  Then,  seeing  the  swift  shadows  of 
sorrowful  surprise  settling  about  the  face  that  for  him 
had  such  a  wonderful  fascination,  he  drew  her  down 
upon  his  knee  to  ask  : 

"  You  are  not  unhappy,  my  wife,  are  you  ?  " 

"  No,  oh  no,  John  !    Perfectly,  perfectly  happy!  and 

*  The  Mormons  hold  that  the  unmarried  or  unsealed  are  doomed  to 
perform  the  service  of  menials  for  all  time  to  come. 


Tiro  CLOUDS.  211 

yet—  The  tears  never  started  to  Effie's  eyes  in  the  im- 
pulsive fashion  that  they  flood  ordinary  eyes.  In  her 
most  anguished  moments,  there  came  only  into  them 
a  look  of  pain  that  pierced  the  heart  of  others  as  no 
tears  possibly  could.  This  look  rested  on  her  hus- 
band's face  in  that  moment  of  hesitation. 

"And  yet  what,  my  St.  Cecilia?"  It  was  a  pretty 
nick-name  he  had  given  her  in  the  early  days  of  their 
renewed  acquaintance. 

"  And  yet,  John,  if  I  did  not  believe  I  was  being 
persecuted  for  righteousness'  sake,  as  the  martyrs  of 
old  were  persecuted  for  their  faith,  father's  silence  and 
Anna's  cold  estrangement  would  break  my  heart." 

John  Quinby  gathered  her  close  to  his  passionate, 
guilty  heart  with  an  impulse  of  remorseful  pity.  So 
pure  and  yet  so  stained,  as  the  world  of  unbelievers 
held. 

"  My  darling,"  he  whispered,  "  you  know  they  do  not 
see  as  we  see ;  do  not  believe  as  we  believe.  You 
must  not  let  thoughts  of  them  darken  our  home  or 
cast  one  shadow  over  this  dear  face.  Your  own  con- 
science and  my  deathless  love,  Effie,  must  be  your 
sole  dependence  through  this  earthly  ordeal." 

"  Oh  no,  John.  That  were  poor  dependence,  indeed  ! 
Broken  reeds,  dear,  empty  cisterns !  I  look  higher  for 
something  to  lean  on,  my  husband,"  and  then,  with  a 
rapt  look  that  seemed  to  place  an  infinitude  of  space 
between  them,  she  added  in  low,  soft  tones  :  "  At  my 


212  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

first  answer  no  man  stood  with  me,  but  all  men  forsook 
me :  I  pray  God  that  it  may  not  be  laid  to  their 
charge ! " 

"  Yes,  oh  yes,  certainly,  I  know,"  says  John  with 
vague  acquiescence  in  the  propriety  of  her  flight  or 
the  impregnability  of  her  position. 

"  But,"  she  added,  coming  back  to  him  and  the  earth, 
"nothing  can  make  me  indifferent  to  the  estrangement 
of  the  two  over  whom  my  heart  yearns  so,  John.  I 
had  hoped  father  would  send  me  one  kind  word  in 
answer  to  my  last  letter.  I  have  written  three  and  not 
one  word  of  reply  of  any  sort !  I  want  him  to  come 
here,  to  live  with  us,  John.  He  is  getting  old  so  fast, 
and  I'm  afraid  he  does  miss  me ;  but  then  he  did 
without  me  all  the  years  I  lived  in  Boston.  Do  you 
think  maybe  he  is  going  to  come,  and  means  to  surprise 
me,  John?" 

He  muttered  something  vague  in  reply.  He  could 
not  tell  her  that  three  letters  had  come  for  her  from 
Elizabeth,  one  after  the  other,  each  one  couching  in 
yet  stronger  terms  than  its  predecessor  a  father's  bitter 
malediction  on  the  man  who  had  sullied  her  life,  and 
containing  his  wrathful  resolve  to  tear  her  from  her 
husband's  house  dead  or  alive,  even  if  he  had  to  fire 
"  Satan's  stronghold  "  with  his  own  hand,  palsied  as  it 
was  by  her  cruel  act  of  desertion.  He  had  received 
the  letters  at  his  office  and  had  destroyed  them  as  sub- 
versive of  the  peace  of  his  own  household.  He  simply 


TWO  CLOUDS.  213 

exercised  his  marital  rights  in  protecting  Effie  from  the 
ravings  of  a  madman.  He  did  not  tell  her  that  he 
had  received  a  more  recent  one  written  by  Ferdinand 
Cosgrove,  who  told  him  that  upon  him  developed  the  sad 
duty  of  informing  Dr.  Ambrose's  daughter  that  her 
father's  mind  was  seriously  impaired  and  that  fears  of  his 
losing  it  entirely  were  entertained  by  the  attending  phy- 
sicians, unless  he  could  be  relieved  of  the  terrible  anxiety 
concerning  her,  and  that,  therefore,  he  (Ferdinand  Cos- 
grove)  respectfully  submitted  the  matter  to  him  (Mr. 
John  Quinby)  as  the  soi-disant  legal  protector  of  Dr. 
Ambrose's  daughter,  hoping  that  her  return  to  the 
States  might  be  the  result." 

This  letter  threw  him  into  such  a  paroxysm  of  rage 
that  he  answered  it  in  a  few  insolent  sentences  : — 

"  Mr.  Quinby  could  not  spare  time  to  accompany 
his  wife,  Dr.  Ambrose's  daughter,  to  the  States,  and 
was  not  willing  for  her  to  undertake  so  long  a  journey 
unaccompanied.  He  regretted  extremely  to  hear  of 
his  old  friend's  sad  condition  and  would  recommend 
Mr.  Cosgrove  (his  attendant  he  presumed)  to  start  for 
Utah  with  him  immediately,  where,  surrounded  by  his 
old  friends  and  ministered  to  by  his  daughter,  doubt- 
less he  would  soon  be  quite  himself  again." 

And  there  the  matter  was  resting,  so  far  as  he  knew. 

But  at  the  other  end  of  the  line  Ferdinand  Cosgrove 
was  making  active  preparations  to  follow  the  insolent 
advice  given,  not  with  a  view  of  handing  the  helpless 


214  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

old  man  over  to  the  guardianship  of  the  Saints,  but 
because  the  physicians  said  that  there  was  no  hope  of 
any  change  unless  he  could  see  his  daughter's  face  once 
more.  Once  let  him  do  that,  and  he  would  be  either 
restored  or  reduced  to  that  stage  of  positive  insanity 
that  would  render  the  course  to  be  pursued  with  him 
sure  beyond  fear  of  error. 

"  If  he  recovers  ?  "  Ferdinand  asked. 

"  He  will  be  strong  enough  to  grapple  with  a  legion 
of  devils." 

"If  not?" 

"  An  asylum !  " 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

IN    DURANCE    VILE. 

A  NNA  Quinby  did  not  settle  into  an  attitude  of 
**  dumb  acceptance  of  her  lot  as  made  and  marred 
by  her  husband,  without  a  fierce  resistance  that  only 
yielded  when  she  was  convinced  that  nothing  could 
come  of  a  longer  struggle  against  the  monstrous  social 
organism  that  made  might  right,  and  vice  virtue.  She 
had  gone  to  Anthony  first  with  her  anguish  and  her 
perplexities. 

"  Anthony,  has  the  father  of  my  children  a  right  to 
prevent  my  taking  them  away  with  me  out  of  the  foul 
contamination  of  this  place?"  (She  was  never  again 
heard  to  call  her  husband  any  thing  but  the  father  of 
her  children.) 

"  Under  the  accursed  laws  of  this  territory  he  has." 

"  But  if  I  should  steal  away  with  them,  Tony — steal 
away  some  night,  you  know,  as  the  slaves  used  to  steal 
away  under  cover  of  darkness,  from  a  bondage  so  much 
lighter  than  mine,  Tony  !  You  would  help  me,  wouldn't 
you,  brother  ?  " 

"With  all  the  strength  of  this  poor  shattered  body, 


2l6  THE  BAR-SINISJ^ER. 

Anna,  with  the  very  best  drop  of  blood  in  my  veins — 
if  there  was  any  hope  of  your  success." 

"  Hope  of  my  success!     Why  should  you  doubt  it  ? 
I  have  plenty  of  solitude,  Tony,"  she  said  with  a  bitter, 
mirthless  laugh,  "  in  which  to  mature  my  plans ;    we 
might  be  gone  days  before  he  would  know  it." 

"  Poor  child,  how  very  much  mistaken  you  are ! 
You  have  not  drained  this  cup  to  its  bitterest  dregs 
yet,  Anna.  Ah  !  I  curse  the  day  when  John  ever  crossed 
your  path,  and  I  will  help  you  ;  but,  unless  you  are 
prepared  to  give  up  your  children,  cease  struggling 
against  the  inevitable."  Great  sobs  shook  his  frame  as 
he  walked  abruptly  away. 

"But  I  don't  in  the  least  understand  you,"  she  said, 
looking  after  him  with  grave  wonderment.  Under  the 
severest  trial  of  his  nerves  she  had  never  seen  Anthony 
give  way  in  this  helpless  fashion  before. 

"  It  is  hard  lines  for  us  all,  Anna,"  he  said,  coming 
back  to  her  with  a  calmer  exterior.  "  It  is  repugnant 
to  me  to  stay  in  a  man's  house  and  play  informer.  If 
I  did  not  think  that  by  staying  I  could  ameliorate 
your  hard  lot  in  a  measure,  I  would  go  this  moment, 
dear." 

"Oh  no,  oh  no,  don't  go,  Tony;"  her  soft  eyes 
swam  in  tears  as  she  held  both  hands  pleadingly 
toward  him. 

"  I  am  not  thinking  of  it.  But  I  want  you  to  know, 
Anna,  that  you  are  under  strict  surveillance  all  the 


IN  DURANCE  VILE.  217 

time,  and  any  attempt  to  escape  with  your  children 
would  only  end  in  defeat  and  added  indignity." 

"  Surveillance  !    I !    How  dare  he  ?  " 

"  He  dares  any  thing,  now,  Anna :  it  is  only  the 
first  step  in  wrong-doing  that  a  man  of  honor  falters 
over.  That  once  taken,  each  successive  downward 
step  comes  easier.  I  think  my  brother  had  hoped  to 
find  you  more  tractable.  Your  course  (the  only  one  open 
to  you  as  a  true  woman)  has  inflamed  his  imperious 
temper.  He  would  have  preferred  retaining  your 
affection.  That  gone,  it  is  simply  a  question  of  mas- 
tery with  him.  I  forewarned  him  that  I  should  not 
leave  you  in  ignorance  of  the  fact  that  the  woman 
whom  he  put  here  as  head  nurse  over  Barbara  is 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  spy  on  your  every  action. 
He  anticipated  your  desire  to  take  the  children  away 
without  his  knowledge.  This  was  his  way  of  prevent- 
ing it.  She  would  report  your  first  step  to  him." 

She  stared  at  him  incredulously  a  long  second.  The 
new  nurse  had  been  so  gentle  and  deferential  and 
altogether  satisfactory,  that  she  had  numbered  her 
among  the  few  sources  of  satisfaction  left  her. 

"  How  dare  he  ?  "  she  said  again,  crimsoning  to  the 
roots  of  her  hair  with  indignation.  "  I  will  dismiss 
her  this  very  moment."  She  sprang  from  her  chair  to 
execute  the  threat. 

A  pitying  smile  played  about  his  lips,  but  his  eyes 
glowed  with  an  answering  indignation. 


2l8  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  Poor  little  bird,  beating  its  heart  out  against  its 
prison  bars,  so  uselessly,  Anna,  so  uselessly  !  You 
are  only  unfitting  yourself,  sister,  to  take  care  of  little 
Comfort  and  Mercy !  '  You  will  dismiss  this  woman 
only  to  have  a  less  endurable  one  put  in  her  place." 

"  Then  I  am  to  live  my  daily  life  under  the  vile 
espionage  of  a  Mormon  spy !  My  pure  little  darlings 
are  to  be  cradled  in  Mormon  arms !  Oh,  Anthony,  is 
there  no  way  out  of  it  ?  Must  I  endure  this  ignominy? 
Is  there  no  way  out  of  it  ?  " 

"  Only  one,  that  I  can  see." 

"And  that?" 

"  Is  to  give  your  voluntary  promise  that  you  will 
make  no  effort  to  escape  with  your  children." 

"  And  that  is  your  way  out  of  it  ?  " 

"  No !  but  that  is  your  only  hope  of  relief  from 
espionage.  Perhaps  God  will  show  us  some  way  out 
of  it,  Anna,  but  mortal  eye  can  not  pierce  the  black 
veil  now.  May  I  tell  John  you  need  no — may  I  say 
you  will  stay?" 

And  so  John  Quinby  scored  one  more  triumph  ! 
And  yet,  when  he  came  as  a  conqueror  to  the  fireside 
where  he  had  once  been  lovingly  acknowledged  as  a 
tower  of  strength,  and  a  very  present  help  in  time  of 
need,  his  victor's  crown  sat  uneasily  on  his  brow,  and 
for  all  the  joy  it  brought  him  might  have  been  a 
veritable  crown  of  thorns  woven  by  the  hand  of  Nemesis. 
As  perhaps  it  was,  who  knows? 


IN  D  URA  NCE  VILE.  2 1 9 

"  You  are  grown  quite  a  literary  character  of  late," 
he  said,  on  one  of  these  uncomfortable  occasions.  "  I 
find  you  writing  every  time  I  come,  and  if  I  cfld  not  I 
think  I  could  tell  in  other  ways  that  you  were  becom- 
ing absorbed  in  literary  pursuits."  He  glanced  slight- 
ingly at  the  plain  black  dress  with  its  carelessly  tied 
black  scarf  and  crumpled  crape  collar. 

"  I  am  collecting  some  statistics,"  she  said,  "  that  I 
may  find  useful  some  day.  I  have  not  grown  literary. 
I  have  neither  talent  nor  inclination  for  original  compo- 
sition. Life  is  such  a  fiercely  earnest  thing  and  its 
colors  so  somber,  that  I  feel  like  laughing  the  novel 
writer's  task  to  scorn.  Why  should  people  waste  time 
writing  or  reading  about  imagined  woes  or  manufac- 
tured tragedies  ?  " 

Having  cast  her  dart  with  direct  aim,  she  bent  again 
over  the  portable  desk  in  her  lap.  She  made  no  effort 
at  entertaining  her  visiting  husband.  She  was  his 
bond-slave,  and  she  performed  all  her  duties  as  a  slave 
in  a  passionless,  perfunctory  manner  that  blessed 
neither  the  doer  nor  the  receiver.  He  would  have 
hailed  with  delight  the  most  violent  outburst  of  temper 
or  reproach.  But  none  ever  came.  Anthony  and  he 
talked  and  smoked  through  the  dull  evenings,  and 
dallying  with  his  pretty  babies  brightened  a  few 
moments  at  a  time  for  him ;  but  master  as  he  was  he 
could  not  command  one  smile  to  the  lips  of  his  unfor- 
giving wife,  nor  win  one  glance  of  love. 


220  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"'Pon  honor,"  he  said,  after  a  long  silence  in  which 
the  scratching  of  her  pen  had  become  audible,  "  you 
are  growing  shockingly  indifferent  to  your  personal 
appearance,  Anna.  It  is  bad  enough  to  find  you 
always  in  that  hideous  black  dress,  but  your  hair,  such 
pretty  hair  as  you  have,  too,  is  as  frowzy  as  a  kitchen 
maid's." 

"  I  must  be  a  little  more  particular,"  she  said,  caress- 
ing the  head  of  little  Mercy  as  it  lay  within  reach  of 
her  hand  on  the  sofa,  "  as  soon  as  these  pretty  ones 
begin  to  notice  such  things.  I  don't  want  them  to 
underrate  the  beauty  of  neatness." 

"Then  I  suppose  my  wishes  on  the  subject  are  not 
to  be  taken  into  consideration  at  all,"  he  flashed 
angrily. 

"  Decidedly  not,"  she  said,  with  that  calm  look  of 
defiance  that  always  made  him  feel  the  impassableness 
of  the  gulf  himself  had  digged  between  them  and 
that  had  served  to  shorten  his  visits  to  her  materially. 

"  I,  too,  have  a  little  curiosity,  Anna,"  said  Anthony 
on  this  particular  occasion,  when  Mr.  Quinby  had  taken 
his  departure  sullenly,  "concerning  your  absorbing  writ- 
ing. I  am  quite  sure  that  you  know  my  interest  is  not 
idle  curiosity." 

"  I  haven't  the  slightest  objection  to  telling  you.  I 
have  dedicated  my  life  to  the  exposure  of  the  domes- 
tic misery  and  absolute  degradation  existing  among 
the  women  of  this  city.  If,  by  my  persistent  efforts 


IN  DURANCE  VILE.  22 1 

and  patient  compilation  of  facts,  I  can  throw  one  ray 
of  the  light  of  truth  upon  this  loathsome  institution,  I 
will  feel  that  perhaps  my  own  sufferings  have  borne 
fruits  worthy  of  the  Master's  acceptance.  Who  knows, 
brother  ?  it  may  be  part  of  God's  plan  that  my  heart 
should  be  pierced  that  others  might  be  spared.  But 
even  should  nothing  come  of  it,  it  gives  me  an  occupa- 
tion that  fills  full  the  dreadful  joyless  days  of  my  life. 
My  darlings  are  so  healthy  and  so  good  that  I  have  too 
much  leisure.  And,  oh  !  the  worse  than  emptiness  of 
the  hours  when  I  look  back  or  forward,  Tony !  I  must 
work  !  and  into  this  work  I  can  throw  all  the  heartiness 
that's  left  to  me.  See,"  she  added,  turning  excitedly 
to  her  desk  and  selecting  some  penciled  slips.  "  I 
have  but  just  begun  this  work  of  visiting  among  the 
Mormon  women,  whom  I  find  quite  ready  to  talk  to 
me.  You  know  I  enjoy  an  enviable  position  in  their 
estimation  as  wife  No.  I  of  the  rich  Mr.  Quinby!" 
(Oh  !  the  flashing  scorn  of  eye  and  lip  ! )  "  No,  I  have 
no  difficulty  in  getting  the  poor  things  to  talk  to  me. 
It  would  tire  you  to  read  all  that  I  have  gathered  in 
the  way  of  personal  evidence,  so  I  will  give  you  one 
day's  gleanings  only.  It  is  only  the  strongest  points  in 
each  conversation  that  I  have  taken  down,  otherwise  my 
proposed  expos6  might  swell  to  the  proportions  of  an 
unabridged  dictionary. 

"  In  one  home  (God  save  the  mark)  I  found  a  brow- 
beaten, wretched  creature  trying  to  run  her  sewing- 


222  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

machine  with  a  sick  baby  across  her  knees.  She  is  one 
of  a  batch  of  seven — bah  !  '  My  husband  tells  me/  she 
said,  '  that  I  need  not  expect  love  from  him.  It  was 
sufficient  honor  to  bear  children  to  the  Saints;  but  I 
sometimes  think,  if  this  is  all  the  honor  and  happiness 
that's  to  come  to  me  and  it '  (then  she  gathered  her 
poor  little  mite  of  a  baby  to  her  bosom,  Tony),  '  it 
wouldn't  be  very  much  of  a  sin  to  dash  its  brains  out 
against  the  wall  yonder,  and  then  to  follow  it  out  of 
the  world.  Only  I'm  scared  of  the  hereafter ! '  At 
another  place,  Tony,  I  found  seven  women  living 
together  in  one  room,  the  wives  of  one  man,  whom 
they  support  by  their  united  labor.  They  had  one 
bond  in  common  besides  their  husband — that  was,  their 
common  degradation  !  But  so  besotted  with  ignorance 
were  they  that  it  frightened  them  to  have  me  cast  any 
doubt  upon  the  divine  origin  of  this  hideous  dogma  of 
polygamy  !  One  poor,  half-crazed  girl  I  found,  who 
firmly  believes  that  she  has  been  sealed  to  Achilles,  by 
proxy,  and  that  the  children  she  shall  bear  to  the  man 
called  her  husband  in  this  world,  will  really  be  the  off- 
spring of  that  Greek  hero  !  She  is  a  devout  believer  in 
the  celestial  marriage,  but  admits  that  if  it  were  not 
for  the  sacrificial  nature  of  her  bond  here  on  earth  she 
would  sink  beneath  the  burden  of  her  existence.  So 
far,  I  have  found  but  one  woman  who  will  say  in  so 
many  words  that  she  likes  the  institution,  and  she  is  a 
low  virago,  who,  with  no  appetite  above  the  brutes  of 


IN  DURANCE  VILE.  223 

the  field,  is  glad  of  assistance  in  her  labors.  Oh, 
Anthony,  I  could  go  on  for  hours  torturing  your  ears 
with  the  revelations  I  have  gathered  in  these  homes 
where  bestial  lust  masquerades  as  marital  affection,  and 
the  glibness  with  which  its  advocates  will  quote  you 
scripture  for  authority  makes  one  pause  in  shuddering 
wonder  at  God's  marvelous  patience.  But  I  must 
work — must  work  hard  and  fast  and  unceasingly.  I 
count  every  moment  lost  that  is  not  spent  on  this  com- 
pilation ;  and  when  I  have  gathered  enough,  Anthony, 
and  have  strung  the  black  facts  on  a  single  strong 
string  of  statement,  just  enough  to  hold  them  together,  _ 
your  part  of  the  work  will  begin." 

"Mine?" 

He  had  followed  her  with  minute  attention.  He 
could  understand  how,  in  her  sore  and  morbid  frame 
of  mind,  she  might  well  d-erive  satisfaction  from  this 
dreary  occupation.  But  what  had  he  to  do  with  it 
all? 

"  Yes,  yours !  When  I  get  my  facts  into  book  shape 
you  will  take  them  to  the  States,  Tony.  You  are  not 
a  prisoner,  you  know,  and  you  will  publish  them,  and 
the  world  will  know  how  women  suffer  here  and  drag 
their  chains  about  with  them  in  helplessness.  And 
men's  pulses  must  be  stirred  to  break  their  bondage  as 
they  were  just  a  little  while  ago,  Anthony,  to  break  the 
chains  of  those  other  slaves  down  South  ;  and  Mormon- 
ism  will  come  to  be  known  for  what  it  is  as  a  hellish 


224  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

device  for  the  destruction  of  women,  bodies  and  souls. 
And  good  men  will  rally  under  Christian  standards  to 
stamp  it  out,  and  I  shall  be  free  to  go  away  with  my 
babies,  where  I  may  never  again  have  to  look  upon  the 
face  of  the  man  who  has  broken  my  heart,  Tony, 
broken  it — broken  it — broken  it !  " 

A  passion  of  sobs  took  possession  of  her  and  shook 
her  frail  form  convulsively,  and  Anthony  wept  with 
her. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

FACE  TO  FACE. 

A  RRIVED  in  Salt  Lake  City  with  his  helpless 
£\  charge  Ferdinand  Cosgrove  found  himself  envi- 
roned with  difficulties.  He  had  hoped  that  the  jour- 
ney through  a  new  and  attractive  region  might  arouse 
the  old  man  from  what  seemed  more  like  settled  mel- 
ancholia than  any  other  phase  of  dementia.  His 
recovery  from  the  paralytic  stroke  had  been  only  par- 
tial. He  could  walk,  but  it  was  with  the  slow,  uncer- 
tain step  of  a  very  old  and  feeble  man.  His  impres- 
sions of  new  faces  and  new  places  were  vague  and  fleet- 
ing. His  childish  prattle  was  all  of  things  and  people 
belonging  to  his  well-spent,  vigorous  past.  His  one 
desire  was  for  Effie — always  Effie. 

And  now  they  were  breathing  the  same  air  with 
Effie.  Perhaps  she  was  but  a  few  blocks  away  from 
the  hotel  he  had  selected,  and  how  was  he  to  bring 
about  the  interview  between  the  father  and  daughter 
that  meant  so  much  to  them  both  ?  He  had  no  desire 
whatever  to  spare  her  one  single  pang.  All  his  solici- 
tude was  for  Dr.  Ambrose.  It  was  not  hard  to  find 


226  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

the  pretty  little  cottage  that  they  told  him  was  Mrs. 
Effie  Quinby's  home.  He  walked  by  the  house  irres- 
olutely three  or  four  times  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street.  He  almost  hoped  she  might  discover  him  and 
come  forward  of  her  own  accord  and  make  his  hard 
task  easier.  But  the  lace  curtains  at  the  front  windows 
hung  unmoved  and  the  door  remained  inhospitably 
closed.  A  well-formed,  handsome-faced  man,  coming 
from  the  business  quarter,  brushed  past  him,  crossed 
over  and  entered  the  gate,  feeling  in  his  pocket  for  his 
latch-key,  probably,  thought  Ferdinand,  who  stood 
watching  him  as  he  mounted  the  steps.  But  the  key 
was  not  needed.  The  door  opened  noiselessly  from 
within,  and  Effie,  lovelier  than  ever,  with  a  certain 
roundness  of  outline  and  glow  of  happiness  that  had 
only  come  to  her  of  late,  stood  waiting  to  be  folded  in 
her  husband's  arms.  Then  they  turned  away  and  went 
in,  he  with  his  arm  around  her  slender  waist,  and 
closed  the  door  behind  them.  The  man  on  the  other 
side  of  the  street  ground  his  heel  fiercely  into  the  brick 
pavement  as  he  turned  and  walked  rapidly  out  of  sight. 
He  went  back  to  the  hotel,  his  course  resolved  upon. 
He  would  make  no  effort  to  soften  the  shock  her 
father's  sad  condition  would  be  to  this  most  unnatural 
daughter.  It  was  useless  to  confer  with  the  doctor  and 
he  would  not  confer  with  John  Quinby.  He  would 
simply  dispatch  a  card  to  Effie  telling  her  that  her 
father  was  at  the  Clift  House.  Then  they  might  come 


FACE  TO  FACE.  227 

together  as  they  chose.  No  harm  could  come  to  the 
doctor.  He  wished  he  could  wash  his  hands  of  this 
whole  affair,  but  he  felt  in  honor  bound  to  stand  by  the 
old  man  who  had  come  out  to  him  with  such  whole- 
souled  sympathy  and  kindness,  when  little  over  a  year 
ago,  he  had  come  North,  a  heart-sick  stranger,  bent  on 
building  up  the  war-shattered  fortunes  of  his  house. 

Mr.  Quinby's  noonday  stay  at  home  was  always 
short.  The  business  of  Ford,  Farnham  &  Co.  was  grow- 
ing in  his  hands  to  mammoth  proportions,  and  he  had 
come  lately  to  feel  that  his  happiest  moments  were 
those  he  spent  in  his  office,  where  life  was  reduced  to  a 
question  of  facts  and  figures,  and  no  problems  more 
harassing  than  the  balancing  of  a  ledger  or  the  prov- 
ing of  a  day-book  confronted  him.  So  he  had  already 
gone  back  to  his  business  place  when  the  hotel  mes- 
senger put  into  Mrs.  Quinby's  hand  an  envelope  which 
she  tore  open  with  nervous  haste.  There  was  no  one 
to  write  to  her  now  but  father,  and  he  had  been 
cruelly  silent.  A  card  with  the  Clift  House  imprint 
was  all  it  contained.  These  words  were  penciled  on 
it: 

"  Your  father  is  at  the  Clift  House.  He  would  be 
glad  to  see  you  if  you  will  come  to  him.  His  room 
is  20.  "  F.  COSGROVE." 

The  messenger  stood  stolidly  waiting  for  a  reply. 

"  Papa  must  be  very  angry  yet,"  she  thought,  "  to 
let  Ferdinand  write  for  him,  and  to  make  me  go  to 


228  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

him.  But  he  will  not  be  after  I  have  talked  to  him. 
Wait,"  she  said  to  the  stolid  messenger.  "  You  must 
show  me  the  way  to  the  Clift  House.  I  shall  not  keep 
you  waiting  long."  She  came  back  to  him  presently, 
bonneted  and  gloved,  and  set  off  at  once  at  a  brisk 
pace. 

Ferdinand's  room  connected  with  the  doctor's.  He 
would  not  stay  to  see  Effie.  He  would  try  to  prepare 
her  father  and  then  go  away  and  leave  them  to  make 
what  they  could  of  the  interview.  There  was  one 
chance  in  a  thousand,  he  thought,  that  any  good  would 
come  of  this  meeting. 

"I  saw  your  daughter  this  morning,  sir,"  he  began 
in  that  slow,  distinct  manner  necessary  now  to  enchain 
the  poor,  wandering  mind. 

"Effie?  Yes,  my  daughter  Effie.  She's  a  sweet 
girl,  Effie  is,  but  a  little  queer.  Don't  speak  of  it  out 
of  the  house,  Ferd,  but —  "  and  here  the  old  man's 
palsied  hand  tapped  his  own  forehead  significantly,  "  it 
was  all  Priscilla's  fault ;  Priscilla  was  a  crank,  you 
know,  and " 

"  I  think  she  will  probably  be  here  to  see  you  this 
afternoon,  doctor." 

No  one  ever  waited  for  the  doctor  to  finish  his  sen- 
tences now.  He  would  ramble  on  inconsequently  for 
a  wearisome  time.  But  his  rugged  face  beamed  with 
pleasure  at  Ferd's  last  words. 

"  Coming,  is  she  ?     Effie  coming  to  see  me  ?     That's 


FACE  TO  FACE. 


229 


good.  You  know  she  went  away  a  long  time  ago  to 
become  a  missionary  among  the  Mormons,  Ferd.  She 
was  always  a  little  visionary  and  wanting  to  do  some- 
thing out  of  the  common,  but — 

"  It  will  not  be  necessary  for  me  to  stay  with  you, 
sir.  I  am  going  to  leave  you  now,  and  your  daughter 
will  come  very  soon,  I  expect,"  says  Ferd,  with  an  in- 
terruption that  the  doctor  does  not  resent. 

"Yes,  oh  yes.  Effie  will  come.  She's  a  good 
daughter,  Ferd.  I  knew  she  would  come  back  to  me, 
oh  yes." 

"  You  won't  leave  the  room,  you  know,  sir,  for  she 
wouldn't  know  where  to  find  you." 

"Oh  no,  here  I  am."  The  poor,  palsied  hands 
clutched  the  arms  of  his  chair  with  exaggerated  show 
of  patience,  while  a  glimmer  of  the  old  ready  fun  flick- 
ered in  the  eyes  that  were  raised  to  Ferd's  face.  "  I 
shan't  budge,  I'll  just  keep  saying,  Effie's  coming, 
Effie's  coming !  " 

And  so  Ferd  left  him,  crooning  the  words  to  himself, 
and  went  away  to  avoid  meeting  the  woman  who  had 
at  one  time  been  scarcely  less  dear  to  him  than  she 
was  yet  to  that  doting  old  man  in  the  chair.  He  put 
only  the  closed  door  of  his  own  room  between  them,  for 
in  case  the  interview  produced  too  violent  an  effect  on 
the  doctor,  he  must  be  within  call. 

In  uncontrollable  agitation  he  walked  the  floor  with 
bowed  head  and  hands  clasped  close  together  behind 


230  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

his  back.  He  was  conscious  of  three  sensations,  which 
served  at  times  to  blot  out  all  thoughts  of  his  own 
plans  in  the  past  or  hopes  in  the  future :  Pity  for  Doc- 
tor Ambrose,  withering  contempt  for  Effie,  and  a  mur- 
derous desire  to  deprive  John  Quinby  of  the  life  he 
was  leading  to  such  evil  purpose.  "Bah  !  "  he  said,  in 
a  paroxysm  of  self-disgust,  "  I  would  throw  away  all 
hope  of  helping  those  pure,  sweet  girls  down  South, 
struggling  so  bravely  with  adversity,  for  the  sake  of 
revenge  that  would  promptly  be  punished  in  this  sanc- 
tified region  by  hanging.  She's  not  worth  it." 

He  stopped  involuntarily  as  the  outer  door  of  the 
next  room  was  opened  and  closed  again  quickly.  She 
had  come.  He  heard  her  call  her  father's  name  with 
eager  pleasure  once,  then  again  in  tones  of  startled  sur- 
prise. He  heard  through  the  thin  partition  the  plaint- 
ive moan  that  had  become  so  sadly  familiar  to  him  of 
late,  fraught  now  with  the  pathetic  eagerness  of  the 
father's  welcome. 

"  My  little  girl!  My  little  girl !  "  It  was  followed 
by  a  cry  of  pain  in  a  woman's  voice.  Then  a  heavy 
fall  and — silence  ! 

The  next  moment  found  him  on  his  knees  by  Effie's 
side,  as  she  lay  white  and  pulseless  on  the  sofa  where 
he  had  laid  her,  gathering  her  tenderly  in  his  arms 
from  the  floor  where  he  had  found  her  at  her  father's 
feet  unconscious.  The  old  man  tottered  after  him 
as  he  bore  her  to  the  sofa  by  the  .open  window, 


FACE  TO  FACE.  231 

the    unchecked    tears    streaming   down    his    furrowed 
cheeks. 

"  She  fell  all  in  a  heap,  Ferd,  before  I  could  catch 
her.  I  don't  seem  to  be  very  strong  lately.  I  expect 
she's  been  working  too  hard  among  the  Mormons,  you 
know.  My  daughter's  a  missionary,  you  know,  Ferd. 
It's  just  a  faint!  Cut  her  stay-laces  and  give  her  air! 
Don't  be  alarmed,  Ferd !  Her  mother  used  to  swoon 
just  as  easily.  There's  sal-volatile  at  her  belt.  She  . 
never  went  without  her  bottle.  It  was  my  command. 
Effie  was  always  an  obedient  child  until  she  got  this 
missionary  craze  on  her.  It's  all  Priscilla's  fault.  Pris- 
cilla  was  a  crank.  Don't  get  agitated,  Ferd,  she'll 
come  round  presently  and  then  we  must  start  right 
home  with  her.  This  place  don't  suit  her." 

"  Ah  !  if  they  only  could  !  If  they  only  could  !  " 
It  was  only  the  senseless  babble  of  an  old  man  gone 
daft  from  grief — but  if  they  only  could  !  If  they  could 
only  gather  her  up  to  their  aching  hearts,  father  and 
lover,  in  a  burst  of  forgiveness,  divine  in  its  fullness,  and 
carry  her  back  to  the  home  she  had  made  desolate ! 
How  beautiful  she  looked  in  her  helplessness,  utterly 
dependent  on  him ;  him,  he  thought  with  fierce  joy, 
for  ministration.  At  last  he  had  held  her  in  his  arms- 
she  had  lain  there  unresisting!  If  she  would  only  die 
in  that  swoon — if  she  might  never  again  open  her 
eyes  upon  a  sin-stained  .world — if  she  might  never 
again  return  to  the  consciousness  of  her  own  degrada- 


232  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

tion !  He  heard  the  old  man  babbling  on  unceasingly, 
now  giving  directions  and  calling  for  remedies  and  re- 
assuring his  fears,  with  a  ring  of  the  old  professional 
decision  in  his  voice,  now  crooning  loving  words  as  he 
hovered  tenderly  over  the  prostrate  form,  with  trem- 
bling hands  that  only  marred  their  own  good  intentions. 
He  watched  the  soft  bosom  rise  and  fall  with  the  re- 
turn of  consciousness.  Not  yet,  not  yet !  With 
consciousness  would  come  back  sin  !  She  would  get 
up  and  go  away  presently,  back  to  him  !  Where  was 
all  the  bitter  wrath  he  had  been  nursing  against  this 
fair  fanatic  all  these  months  !  Why  was  it  that  he 
could  see  in  her  now,  as  she  lay  there  with  white  lips 
and  sealed  lids,  nothing  but  a  broken  lily,  that  he 
wanted  to  take  up  with  healing  intent !  She  would 
never  again  touch  his  life  as  nearly.  He  would  gladly 
prolong  the  sweet  bitterness  of  those  moments.  A 
long,  shuddering  sigh — a  sudden  up-lifting  of  her  white 
eyelids — a  look  of  wondering  inquiry  into  his  face,  as 
he  still  kneeled  by  her  side.  Then,  with  a  smile  of  in- 
effable sadness  she  put  her  hand  into  his  and  held  by 
it  until  she  had  lifted  herself  into  a  sitting  posture. 

"You  have  been  very  good  to  father!  But,  oh! 
you  should  have  told  me,  you  should  have  told  me ! 
It  was  cruel  to  let  the  shock  of  his  illness  come  upon 
me  unprepared." 

She  reached  up  both  hands  and  drew  the  old  man  to 
her  side  on  the  sofa.  With  her  arms  around  his  neck 


FACE  TO  FACE.  233 

and  her  cheek  laid  against  his  rugged  one,  she  poured 
out  a  torrent  of  remorseful  affection. 

"  He  must  have  been  very  sick ;  hasn't  he,  Mr.  Cos- 
grove  ?  He  seemed  so  weak,  and  even  now  his  hands 
tremble  so.  Oh,  papa !  you  ought  to  have  made  them 
write  to  me." 

So,  after  all,  the  hard  task  of  explanation  was  thrust 
upon  him,  Ferd  thought,  with  a  soul  full  of  bitter- 
ness. 

"  Have  you  heard  nothing  at  all  of  your  father's 
condition,  Miss —  The  difficulty  of  addressing  her 
overcame  him  with  confusion. 

"  Mrs.  Quinby,"  she  said,  with  simple  directness  and 
a  steady  glance,  that  meant  to  say,  "  I  understand 
your  position  and  you  must  understand  mine."  It 
had  the  effect  of  steeling  his  heart  and  lightening  his 
hard  task.  For  Mrs.  Quinby  he  felt  no  pity. 

He  moved  slightly  away  and  stood  looking  down 
upon  her  with  folded  arms  and  eyes  full  of  merciless 
decision. 

"  You  have  not  then  received  the  four  letters  written 
you,  giving  you  in  detail  an  account  of  the  havoc  you 
have  wrought  there?"  His  glance  fell  on  her  father, 
as  he  sat  by  her  on  the  sofa,  caressing  her  hands  and 
smiling  broadly  in  the  fullness  of  his  content. 

"No!  Not  one.  Havoc!  Papa  is  only  unstrung  by 
this  meeting.  I  know  him  of  old ;  you  do  not. 
Strong  agitation  always  made  him  wordless.  You  are 


234  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

well  now,  father,  aren't  you  ?  "  She  took  the  withered 
face  in  both  her  hands  and  scanned  it  anxiously. 

"  Quite  well,  dearie,  quite  well.  A  little  shaky  yet, 
that's  all.  Tell  her,  Ferd.  You  know  I've  been  sick, 
daughter,  oh  yes,  quite  sick.  Let  me  see.  Oh  yes, 
now  I  remember.  It  was  just  after  she  went  off  to  be 
a  missionary  among  the  Mormons  that  I  took  sick, 
wasn't  it,  Ferd  ?  But  I'm  all  right  now,  darling. 
Ferd  stuck  to  me  like  a  man.  Tell  her  about  it, 
Ferd." 

He  smiled  fatuously  upon  them  both,  then  fell  once 
more  to  patting  the  little  hand  that  lay  trembling  in 
his  clasp.  His  happiness  was  complete.  Effie  was 
once  more  close  enough  for  him  to  touch  her  and  he 
asked  nothing  more  at  the  hands  of  fate. 

"What  does  it  all  mean?  "she  asked,  turning  her 
eyes  once  more  upon  Ferdinand.  "  He  does  not  seem 
at  all  himself." 

"No.  Nor  will  he  ever  be  himself  again.  All  hope 
for  him  has  died  out  in  my  heart  within  the  last  half 
hour.  Your  work  is  complete." 

"  My  work  ?  Don't  look  at  me  so  mercilessly,  please. 
Don't  answer  me  so  mysteriously.  Remember  that 
from  the  moment  I  left  my  father's  house  impelled  to 
obey  a  higher  mandate  than  that  of  any  earthly  parent, 
up  to  this  one,  I  have  not  heard  one  word  from  my  old 
home.  I  have  supposed  my  father  living  the  life  he 
led  during  the  ten  years  I  was  away  from  him  in  Boston, 


FACE  TO  FACE.  235 

active  in  all  good  works,  blessing  the  poor,  comforting 
the  sorrowing  of  all  ranks  and  stations." 

"  That  was  the  life  of  his  own  choosing ;  this  is  his 
life  of  your  making!  That  his  state  of  mind  should 
come  on  you  with  the  shock  of  a  surprise  is  not  my 
fault.  On  the  night  that  you  so  inhumanely  deserted 
your  father — stop !  don't  interrupt  me !  You  have 
asked  me  to  tell  you  all  about  it,  and  so  has  he.  I 
must  do  it  my  own  way,  and  as  Mr.  John  Quinby  has 
evidently  judged  best  to  destroy  the  letters  written 
you,  without  letting  you  see  them,  I  must  necessarily 
be  a  trifle  prolix." 

"That  insulting  charge  my  husband  must  answer  in 
person !  "  she  said,  flushing  indignantly. 

"  Nothing  would  give  me  more  entire  satisfaction. 
But  to  go  on.  The  night  of  your  flight  your  father 
was  smitten  with  a  stroke  of  paralysis  that  rendered  it 
an  even  thing  for  weeks  whether  he  would  live  or  die. 
From  the  moment  of  reading  your  letter,-  either  with  a 
view  of  shielding  you  from  suspicion,  or  in  a  pitiable 
effort  at  self-deception,  he  has  insisted  upon  it  that 
you  had  come  here  in  the  capacity  of  a  missionary. 
I  allowed  the  poor  old  man  to  comfort  himself  with 
the  delusion.  It  will  be  an  act  of  mercy  if  you  do  not 
undeceive  him.  As  soon  as  he  was  able  to  give  any 
commands,  he  made  me  write  to  Mr.  John  Quinby 
asking  him  to  take  you  under  his  protection,  until  he, 
your  father,  was  able  to  come  for  you.  Mr.  Quinby 


236  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

has  acquitted  himself  worthily  of  the  trust  reposed  in 
him." 

His  words  came  thick  and  hot  as  thunderbolts  as  he 
hurled  them  at  her  with  fierce  rapidity  of  utterance. 

"  Just  about  the  time  when  your  father's  naturally 
robust  physique  was  promising  him  a  triumph  over  his 
first  attack  came  your  letter,  telling  him  that  you  had 
been  sealed  to  John  Quinby,  the  recreant  husband  of 
your  own  best  friend  !  And  then  indeed  the  iron 
entered  into  his  soul  and  there  it  rankles  now  !  They 
told  me  that  there  was  one  hope  for  his  recovery.  It 
lay  in  his  seeing  you  again.  I  loved  the  old  man  so 
that  I  wanted  to  give  him  that  one  chance.  And  I 
thought — oh  !  while  I  am  about  it,  let  me  lay  bare  my 
soul  too !  I  thought  that,  maybe,  when  you  saw  what 
you  had  done,  nature  would  assert  itself  and  in 
your  remorse  you  might  heal  the  wounds  of  your  own 
making  by  going  back  to  your  home  with  him,  and 
letting  time  help  to  restore  you  both  to  the  peace  you 
threw  away  from  him  and  yourself  too.  Yes,  yourself 
too.  If  you  do  not  feel  it  yet,  you  will — you  must, 
as  inevitably  as  there  is  a  God  in  Heaven  and  a  God- 
implanted  conscience  in  your  breast !  You  think,  and 
I  give  you  credit  for  your  hallucination,  that  you  are 
acting  up  to  the  instincts  of  that  conscience  now;  but 
the  scales  will  drop  from  your  eyes  and  reveal  yourself 
and  your  so-called  religion  in  such  monstrous  hideous- 
ness  that  then  your  very  worst  enemy  will  be  com- 


FACE  TO  FACE.  237 

pelled  to  pity  you.  Doubtless  you  think  I  am  insult- 
ing you,  insulting  your  creed — insulting  the  Saints  all 
at  once !  If  I  thought  that  by  heaping  curse  upon  curse, 
or  word  upon  word,  I  could  turn  you  from  this 
strange  hallucination  and  give  you  back,  all  stained  as 
you  are,  to  that  poor  old  man,  how  my  tongue  should 
wag  !  As  it  is,  I  have  brought  him  to  you  a  physical 
and  mental  wreck.  What  he  is  now  you  have  made 
him.  He  was  meant  by  God  to  be  a  benefactor  to  his 
kind.  He  was  one  until  you,  led  astray  by  that  emis- 
sary of  the  devil  whom  your  father  nursed  back  to  life, 
broke  his  heart  and  clouded  his  intellect.  Religion,  I 
take  it,  is  meant  as  a  solace  for  all  earthly  ills,  as  a  puri- 
fier of  unclean  hearts  and  a  source  of  strength  under  the 
assaults  of  the  world,  the  flesh  and  the  devil.  What 
has  the  religion  (God  forgive  me  for  using  the  word  in 
so  vile  a  connection)  you  practice  done  for  humanity — 
done  for  you?  It  has  cursed  your  home — stained 
your  soul,  and  left  you  at  the  mercy  of  man's  most 
brutal  instincts." 

She  raised  her  hands  as  one  does  when  warding  off 
blows. 

."  Spare  me!  I  can  not  stand  it!  If  you  have  no 
mercy  on  me  as  a  Mormon  wife,  spare  me  as  a  woman  ! ' 

His  arms  fell  apart  and  dropped  listlessly  by  his 
side!  She  had  exorcised  the  demon  of  his  wrath! 
Exorcised  it  in  the  name  of  that  which  he  had  held  in 
holiest  veneration  through  all  his  chivalric  young  life. 


238  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

The  name  of  woman  !  Infatuated,  mistaken,  erring,  all 
wrong  she  might  be,  she  most  certainly  was,  but  yet  a 
woman,  so  appealing  in  her  very  powerlessness.  He 
was  himself  but  another  sort  of  brute  !  His  eyes  rested 
on  her  remorsefully  as  she  dropped  her  head  in  her 
hands,  in  a  sudden  revulsion  from  angry  scorn  to 
yearning  pity. 

"Effie!" 

She  raised  her  face  to  look  at  him.  It  was  white 
and  drawn,  but  tearless. 

"  Go  back  to  your  old  home  with  your  father,  will 
you  not  ?  Never  mind  what  the  man  you  call  your 
husband  says  or  thinks,  go  back  to  the  old  life  and  win 
your  way  back  to  peace  of  soul  !  Never  mind  what 
the  oily  tongued  sorceress,  who  took  advantage  of  your 
dreamy  transcendentalism  to  fire  your  undisciplined 
imagination,  says  or  thinks — go  back  to  the  old  home ! 
Never  mind  what  the  legion  of  devils  that  encompass 
you,  blasphemously  calling  themselves  saints,  say  or 
think — go  back !  It  is  your  one  hope  of  peace  on  earth 
or  rest  in  heaven  !  " 

She  stood  up  before  him  visibly  trembling.  Clasp- 
ing her  arms  around  her  father's  neck  she  kissed  him 
again,  and  again,  and  again  !  Then  she  gave  Ferdi- 
nand the  answer  he  was  waiting  for  with  sickening 
anxiety. 

"  I  have  given  you  a  weapon  by  my  cowardly  pas- 
siveness.  I  have  allowed  you  to  say  things  you  had  no 


PACE  TO  FACE.  23$ 

right  to  say,  ignorant,  cruel,  wicked  things.  My  father's 
sad  condition  startled  me  so  that  I  lost  all  command  of 
myself.  Your  greatest  error  lies  in  your  thinking- 1 
look  upon  marriage  as  an  avenue  to  earthly  gratifica- 
tion of  any  sort.  I  regard  our  bodies  as  given  to  us 
exclusively  for  purposes  of  divine  discipline.  Long 
since,  in  my  lonely  girlhood,  it  came  to  me  to  believe 
that,  as  worldlings  talk,  I  could  never  be  happy.  I 
never  seemed  to  extract  enjoyment  out  of  things  that 
pleased  others.  I  do  believe  that  there  is  happiness  in 
store  for  her  who  sacrifices  all  earthly  delights  to  attain 
it.  The  more  complete  the  sacrifice  here,  the  more 
refulgent  the  glory  there  !  I  have  a  mission  to  per- 
form here  below,  and  God  led  me  here  direct  to  show 
me  where  my  work  lay.  My  mission  is  to  impress  it 
upon  the  women  of  my  sect  that  the  celestial  and  the 
eternal  marriages  into  which  we  are  sealed  here  are 
purely  symbolical,  their  true  significance  dawning  upon 
us  only  after  we  have  passed  beyond.  My  father  is 
my  natural  charge.  I  thank  you  for  all  you  have  done 
for  him.  My  home  must  be  his  home."  She  turned 
toward  her  father,  whose  face,  during  the  while  Ferdi- 
nand had  been  swept  away  by  his  wrath,  and  when  she 
was  defending  herself,  had  been  full  of  perplexity.  It 
was  all  so  unmeaning  to  him.  He  grasped  but  one 
idea :  Ferd  seemed  very  angry  and  Effie  very  much 
distressed.  That  was  enough  to  banish  the  child-like 
smile  from  his  mild  face  and  leave  it  full  of  trouble. 


240  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

11  What  is  it,  dears?     My  little  girl,  what  is  it?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  go  away  with  me  to  my  home,  father ; 
will  you  go?  " 

He  looked  appealingly  toward  Ferdinand.  Ferd 
settled  every  thing  for  him  these  days. 

"Will we  go,  Ferd?  Goto  live  with  Effie,  always?" 
he  asked  eagerly. 

"  You'd  best  think  about  it  first,  sir,"  Ferdinand  said, 
laying  his  hand  tenderly  on  the  stooping  shoulders. 
"  Tell  her  you'll  think  about  it." 

"  Yes,  yes,  that's  best.  Always  best  to  think  about  a 
thing  before  deciding,  dearie,"  nodding  sagaciously 
toward  his  daughter.  "  I'm  afraid  my  people  would 
miss  me.  They've  got  used  to  my  ways  and  my  pills, 
and  some  of  them  are  actual  fools  about  the  old  man, 
Ferd,  yes,  actual  fools — won't  send  for  another  doctor 
under  any  circumstances.  I  told  them  my  daughter 
Effiehad  gone  off  as  a  missionary,  and  that  I  was  going 
to  fetch  her  home,  but — 

The  tears  were  streaming  down  Effie's  cheeks.  Her 
father  put  his  palsied  hand  up  to  wipe  them  away. 

"  My  little  girl !  Why,  my  little  girl,  what  brings  the 
tears  ?  " 

She  could  stand  no  more.  Winding  her  veil  tightly 
about  her  face,  she  murmured  something  about  coming 
back  for  him,  and  then  went  quickly  away  from  them, 
sick  at  heart.  • 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

TOTTERING    IDOLS. 

IT  was  with  a  sense  of  taking  shelter  from  a  storm 
that  she  once  more  gained  her  own  home,  and 
locking  herself  into  her  bedroom  poured  out  the  pent- 
up  agony  of  her  soul.  The  rare  relief  of  tears  came  to 
her,  and  she  let  them  fall  unchecked.  Ferdinand  Cos- 
grove's  words  pursued  her  like  so  many  Furies.  The 
flashing  scorn  in  his  eyes  haunted  her.  She  wished 
that  by  burying  her  head  in  the  pillows  she  could  lose 
the  ringing  disdain  in  his  voice.  No  one  had  ever 
talked  to  her  so  before.  No  one  had  ever  dared.  He 
had  given  her  faith  in  herself  a  tremendous  shock. 
Could  it  be  that  while  she  had  only  thought  to  step 
heavenward  by  soaring  above  the  petty  loves  and  joys 
and  conventionalities  of  this  world,  she  had  been  work- 
ing woe  for  others — above  all  to  the  venerable  author 
of  her  being?  Oh,  where  should  light  be  found!  He 
had  given  her  faith  in  her  husband  a  tremendous  shock. 
She  had  hardly  thought  John  could  do  wrong.  Her 
idol  was  toppling  to  its  fall !  To  suppress  her  letters 
was  to  show  himself  capable  of  a  cowardly  act.  She 
could  forgive  any  thing  in  a  man  sooner  than  a  lapse 


242  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

from  moral  courage.  He  would  say,  perhaps,  that  "  it 
was  to  spare  her."  She  had  never  asked  to  be  spared 
one  pang.  She  was  ready  to  suffer  all  the  pains  and 
penalties,  if  any  attached,  for  her  own  coming  out  from 
the  fold  of  her  fathers.  If  he  had  known  of  her  father's 
mental  condition,  and  yet  kept  her  in  ignorance  of  it, 
what  excuse  would  he  offer  in  self-defense?  She  was 
impatient  for  his  self-vindication. 

So,  it  was  rather  with  an  accusing  angel  than  the 
officiating  priestess  he  had  come  to  regard  her,  that 
Mr.  Quinby  found  himself  confronted  that  evening 
when  he  got  home.  As  child  and  woman  Effie  had  al- 
ways been  singularly  direct  in  her  words  and  actions. 
She  only  waited  for  him  to  seat  himself  with  his  slippers 
on  and  his  evening  paper  in  his  hand. 

"  John,"  she  said,  standing  before  him  with  inter- 
locked hands,  "  have  you  ever  received  any  letters  from 
Elizabeth  for  me,  or  to  you,  telling  about  my  father's 
having  had  a  paralytic  stroke  ?  " 

The  attack  was  altogether  unexpected,  and  he  quailed 
under  it  perceptibly.  His  handsome  face  flushed 
darkly.  He  made  an  unnecessary  ado  over  the  nice 
adjustment  of  his  paper. 

"  Have  you,  John?" 

"  Letters!  bless  me,  why,  I  don't  recall  any  thing  of 
the" — the  lie  would  not  come  with  those  clear,  serious 
eyes  searching  his  face — "  not — ah — very  recently,  that 
is." 


TOTTERING  IDOLS.  243 

"  Not  very  recently  then,  John !  Any  time  since  our 
marriage  ?" 

Should  he  be  badgered  into  telling  a  lie  to  shield 
himself  from  a  woman?  The  idea  was  wholly  absurd. 
He  looked  defiantly  at  her. 

"  Yes  !  I  don't  know  but  I  did  !  But  where  was  the 
use  of  bothering  you  with  them  ?  There  was  nothing 
very  cheering  or  pleasant  in  them.'' 

"  But  they  were  my  letters,  weren't  they,  John?" 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,  certainly ;  but  as  the  request 
was  totally  unreasonable — " 

"What  request  ?  ". 

"  The  request  that  you  should  go  to  your  father." 

" Did\\e  write  for  me  then?" 

"  Why,  of  course  he  did,  child  ;  but  I  was  not  going 
to  permit  you  to  undertake  such  a  trip  by  yourself, 
and  " — with  sudden  exasperation,  "  what  are  you  driv- 
ing at,  Effie,  any  how  ?  " 

"  Then  he  was  right." 

She  had  been  standing  in  front  of  him  with  a  wistful, 
eager  look  in  her  solemn  eyes  ;  now  she  slowly  crossed 
the  rug,  and  sat  down  remote  from  him. 

"  Who  was  in  the  right  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Cosgrove." 

"  Confound  Mr.  Cosgrove  !  Who  is  Mr.  Cosgrove  ? 
And  where  is  Mr.  Cosgrove  ?  And  what  has  he  to  do 
with  our  private  affairs  any  way?" 

"  Mr.  Cosgrove  is  the  young  Southerner  who  was 


244  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

studying  medicine  under  my  father.  He  is  at  the 
Clift  House  with  father  now !  He  has  been  like  a  son 
to  poor,  poor  papa  !  " 

"  Your  father  at  the  Clift  House  !  Why,  bless  my 
soul,  we  must  have  him  here."  He  consulted  his  watch. 
"  I'll  go  for  him  as  soon  as  we're  through  with  dinner. 
Have  you  seen  him  ?  Why  didn't  you  bring  him  right 
along  home  with  you  ?  "  He  was  volubly  anxious  to 
pursue  this  phase  of  the  subject !  Any  thing  to  prevent 
he*r  going. back  to  the  intercepted  letters  in  that  per- 
sistent, catechetical  fashion  of  hers.  "  How  is  the  old 
gentleman  looking?" 

"  He  is  a  mental  and  physical  wreck,  John." 

"What?" 

"  And  Ferdinand  says  it  is  my  work." 

"  Ferdinand  be  d d !  I  will  close  his  intermed- 
dling lips  for  him  !" 

"  But  suppose  he  is  right,  John?  " 

Mr.  Quinby  turned  from  her  in  speechless  wrath. 
Were  the  dragon  seeds  of  discord  to  be  sown  here  too  ? 
Was  life  to  be  one  perpetual  combat  for  him,  hence- 
forth? Effie  had  been  a  gently  considerate  wife  to 
him  up  to  this  moment.  He  owed  her  some  recom- 
pense for  having  deceived  her  about  her  father.  He 
would  make  the  amend  as  far  as  in  him  lay.  He  would 
even  compromise  with  that  impertinent  intermeddler 
Cosgrove,  for  the  sake  of  Effie's  peace  of  mind.  It 
would  be  a  bitter  pill,  but  he  would  do  it.  He  had  yet 


TOTTERING  IDOLS.  245 

to  recognize  that  he  who  once  compromises  with  dis- 
honor, must  consent  to  make  of  all  his  after  life  a 
thing  of  shifts  and  subterfuges  and  dodges  and  lies ! 
He  walked  over  to  her  chair  and  stooped  to  give  her  a 
placating  kiss  : 

"  My  sweet  wife,  one's  best  intentions  are  liable  to 
misconstruction  often.  My  chief  aim,  since  you  have 
been  my  wife,  has  been  to  spare  you  pain.  Perhaps  I 
did  wrong  in  keeping  the  details  of  your  father's  suffer- 
ings from  you,  but  it  was  meant  in  mercy  to  you.  We 
must  have  him  here.  I  will  call  at  the  Clift  House 
immediately  after  dinner,  Effie,  and  between  us  we'll 
soon  bring  the  doctor  round."  And  call  he  did  and 
sent  his  card  up  for  Dr.  Ambrose  and  Mr.  Ferdinand 
Cosgrove.  The  attendant  returned  with  a  blank 
envelope  on  his  card-tray  : 

"  The  old  gentleman  was  asleep.  The  young  gentle- 
man sent  that." 

Mr.  Quinby  opened  the  envelope.  It  contained  his 
own  card  torn  half  in  two,  nothing  more !  Purpled 
with  rage,  he  left  the  hotel.  What  should  he  do? 
Go  back  and  tell  Effie  that  this  insolent,  fire-eating 
Southerner  had  come  off  conqueror?  In  his  perplexity 
he  thought  of  Anthony.  And  to  Anthony  he  went 
for  consolation. 

An  hour  later  Mr.  Anthony  Quinby's  card  was  car- 
ried up  to  Mr.  Ferdinand  Cosgrove.  Under  the  name 
was  penciled  : 


246  THE  BAR  SINISTER. 

"  The  interests  of  all  concerned  will  be  best  sub- 
served by  your  seeing  me." 

Ferdinand  came  down  promptly.  One  glance  into 
the  pure,  clear  eyes  of  the  man  who  came  toward  him 
with  halting  step,  holding  out  his  left  hand  in  greeting, 
for  lack  of  any  other,  was  enough  to  satisfy  him  that  he 
was  in  the  presence  of  a  gentleman.  Their  hands  met 
in  a  warm,  lingering  pressure.  When  they  fell  apart, 
both  men  felt  that  a  new  and  lasting  friendship  had 
come  into  their  lives.  There  was  no  pretense  of  mak- 
ing talk.  Anthony  had  come  with  a  purpose.  Each 
recognized  in  the  other  an  under-current  of  earnest- 
ness that  would  brook  no  trifling,  no  skimming  over 
thin  ice. 

"  My  brother  called  this  evening,"  Anthony  said, 
taking  the  initiative  plunge,  as  they  seated  themselves 
on  one  sofa.  "  I  have  just  left  him.  He  has  told  me 
all  about  our  dear  old  friend's  condition." 

"Yes?" 

"  You  refused  to  see  him  ?     John,  I  mean." 

"  Yes." 

Anthony  looked  wistfully  into  the  almost  boyish 
face  before  him.  It  glowed  yet  with  the  fires  that  had 
been  kindled  by  the  events  of  the  day.  He  laid  his 
hand  on  Ferdinand's  knee. 

"  My  dear  Cosgrove,  I  hope  we  understand  each 
other  very  fully  in  this  matter.  You  and  I  are  power- 
less to  remedy  the  monster  evil  that  has  ingulfed  so 


TOTTERING  IDOLS.  247 

many  that  are  dear  to  us  both.    Do  you  not  think  that 
where  cure  is  impossible,  amelioration  is  advisable?" 

"  What  amelioration  is  possible  ?  God  knows  I  would 
gladly  ameliorate  matters  for  that  poor  old  man  up 
stairs.  It  is  what  brought  me  here  with  him." 

"  There  is  but  one  way  to  do  it  And  I  am  here  to 
advise  with  you  about  it.  Dr.  Ambrose  seemed  happy 
to-day  in  his  daughter's  company,  did  he  not?" 

"Yes,  I  was  pained  to  find  that  her  presence  stirred 
no  harrowing  recollections  in  his  mind." 

"  Why  pained  ?  " 

"  Because  his  fatuous  happiness  precludes  all  hope 
of  final  recovery." 

"  I  should  think  that  where  restoration  meant  return 
to  misery,  you  would  rather  have  him  enjoy  his  imag- 
inary bliss." 

"  I  don't  know  but  you  are  right." 

"  That  being  the  case,  if  you  consult  the  doctor's 
happiness,  you  will  leave  him  with  his  daughter.  My 
brother  is  anxious  to  have  him  with  her." 

"  The  sight  of  John    Ouinby   must  inflict  pain  on 
him.     I  do  not  believe,  even  in  his  crazed  condition, 
the  sight  of  that  foul  destroyer  of  his  peace  and  home, 
could  fail  of  torturing  him." 

"  I  have  not  one  word  to  say  in  defense  of  John 
Quinby.  But  bear  in  mind  that  Doctor  Ambrose's 
daughter  declared  for  Mormonism  in  total  independ- 
ence of  my  brother's  views." 


248  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  True  !  true  !  Monstrous,  incomprehensible  infat- 
uation !  Tell  me,"  he  went  on  with  sudden  fierce 
fervor  of  eye  and  voice ;  "  you  have  been  on  this 
accursed  soil  now  for  nearly  two  years,  is  this  thing, 
called  Mormonism,  any  more  explicable  to  you  now 
than  it  was  before  you  came  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  the  wonder  grows  !  The  more  one 
sees  of  its  thorough  vileness,  its  bestial  corruption  and 
wide-spreading  influence  for  evil,  the  more  one  marvels 
at  the  complacence  of  the  United  States  Government. 
Charles  Sumner  in  speaking  of  your  slaves  long  ago 
said  that  it  was  a  cancer  so  deep  rooted  in  our  body 
politic  that  no  rosewater  methods  would  ever  uproot 
it.  It  was  abolished  by  the  war  power,  as  John  Quincy 
Adams  predicted  it  would  be." 

"  And  you  think  that  will  be  the  only  solution  of  the 
present  problem?  " 

"  It  is  hard  to  foresee  any  other.  This  institution  is 
as  alien  to  our  system  of  government  as  the  cannibal- 
ism or  the  fetichism  of  Western  Africa.  And, 
although  it  has  been  a  factor  in  our  politics  for  many 
years  past,  nothing  but  discussion  comes  of  it." 

"  There  must  be  some  cause  for  this  damnable 
apathy." 

"  I  find  it  in  the  two  facts,  that  the  horrors  of  Mor- 
monism do  not  appeal  violently  to  the  voting  class  in 
the  country,  and  the  non-voters  are  either  Gentile 
women,  ignorant  of  the.  true  state  of  affairs,  or  Mor- 


TOTTERING  IDOLS.  249 

mon  women,  either  sunk  into  the  degraded  indifference 
that  comes  from  a  sort  of  moral  paralysis,  or  who  are 
in  such  abject  bondage  to  their  superstitious  fears  that 
they  shrink  from  touching  the  subject  which  they  are 
taught  to  believe  has  a  divine  origin." 

"But  to  the  women  one  would  naturally  look  for 
that  invincible  protest  of  right  against  wrong  that  gives 
the  battle  to  the  weak.  No  evil  has  ever  yet  with- 
stood a  determined  onslaught  against  it  by  women. 
And  these  women  have  the  right  of  franchise ! " 

"Another  Mormon  outrage!  It  is  the  veriest  sham 
on  earth.  The  women  are  so  absolutely  under  the  con- 
trol of  the  men,  that  granting  them  the  franchise  was 
simply  multiplying  their  own  votes.  When  the  Pacific 
Railroad  was  completed,  this  city  was  overrun  with 
Gentile  miners,  who  threatened  to  sweep  the  Saints 
out.  By  investing  their  women  with  the  privilege  of 
voting  the  Saints  retained  the  balance  of  power  in 
their  own  hands. 

"  What  the  world  knows  of  Mormon  life  and  charac- 
ter falls  far  short  of  the  truth,"  he  added,  gloomily. 

"  Then  whosoever  sheds  the  light  of  searching  inves- 
tigation and  fearless  denunciation  upon  this  dark  plague 
spot,  will  be  hastening  the  hour  of  retribution?" 

"I  think  so." 

A  thoughtful  silence  fell  between  the  two  men. 
Anthony  broke  it  by  rising  to  go. 

"To  return  to  my  errand,     Dr.  Ambrose  has  a  de- 


250  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

voted  friend  in  my  sister-in-law  Anna  and  in  myself. 
Effie,  of  course,  belongs  to  those  who  have  claims  on 
him." 

"  Forfeited  claims." 

"  Perhaps !  But  it  is  hardly  likely  that  you  are  in  a 
position  to  devote  your  life  to  Dr.  Ambrose." 

"No!  It  has  received  an  impetus  in  a  new  direc- 
tion— but  the  doctor — 

"Yes!  Let  us  settle  about  the  doctor  first.  If  you 
think  well  of  i.t,  he  shall  spend  his  time  impartially 
between  Anna  and  Effie.  He  will  be  affectionately 
cared  for  by  both  women — and — " 

"And?" 

"  It  shall  be  my  care  that  John  never  crosses  his 
path.  It  will  be  easily  enough  managed  under  the 
peculiar  domestic  regulations  that  hold  good  here." 

"  I  have  no  legal  right  to  settle  this  matter  for  my 
friend  and  benefactor.  It  must  be  just  as  his  daughter 
says,"  Ferdinand  said  coldly. 

"  It  is  her  expressed  wish  that  the  decision  be  left  in 
your  hands.  She  says  you  have  been  a  better  son  to 
him  than  she  has  been  a  daughter  and  your  decision 
shall  be  accepted  as  final." 

"She  is  very  good  to  me."  There  was  a  lurking 
irony  in  his  voice  that  did  not  escape  Tony's  quick 
ear. 

"She  is  full  of  remorseful  affection  for  her  father, 
and  good  may  come  of  their  companionship." 


TOTTERING  IDOLS.  251 

"  Let  it  be  as  you  say.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  handing 
him  over  bound  into  the  hands  of  his  enemies.  But 
since  we  have  been  talking  my  life  has  shaped  itself  to 
a  definite  object." 

"And  that  is?" 

"A  full,  entire,  truthful  and  absolutely  fearless  ex- 
position of  the  workings  of  this  foul  system." 

"  I  wish  you  God  speed  !  It  is  only  the  hidden 
sources  of  corruption  that  defile  and  endanger  life. 
Once  lay  bare  the  sore  and  remedies  may  be  found." 

"  Must  be  found !  "  says  Ferdinand  with  the  absolut- 
ism of  youth  and  inexperience. 

And  so  it  was  arranged  that  Dr.  Ambrose  should  go 
to  his  daughter  Effie  the  next  morning.  Anthony  was 
to  come  for  him.  The  old  man's  satisfaction  in  the 
arrangement  was  without  alloy.  His  face  clouded  over 
temporarily  when  he  found  Ferdinand  was  not  to  ac- 
company him,  but  cleared  again  when  told  that  he 
should  see  him  every  day  at  the  hotel. 

"  I  shall  not  return  to  the  States  yet  awhile,  at 
least,"  he  said  to  Anthony.  "  I  must  see  how  this 
experiment  affects  the  doctor's  happiness." 

So  he  staid  on — exploring,  investigating,  ponder- 
ing, accumulating  mountains  of  evidence  against 
the  Saints — biding  his  time. 

While  John  Quinby,  congratulating  himself  on  having 
purchased  peace  at  home  on  such  easy  terms,  devoted 
himself  more  and  more  eagerly  to  the  accumulation  of 


252  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

money,  waxing  richer  and  richer,  and  was  regarded  by 
Ford,  Farnham  &  Co.  as  a  thoroughly  satisfactory 
partner  in  every  respect ;  and  was  held  in  high  esteem 
by  all  the  Saints  as  a  man  in  good  repute  in  the  matter 
of  tithes  and  a  prominent  figure  in  the  Council  House 
of  the  Seventies ;  and,  in  short,  had  every  thing  in  his 
clutch  but  that  most  illusive  of  all  phantoms — happi- 
ness ! 

And  what  doth  it  profit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole 
world  and  lose  that  one  thing? 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

CLASS  NO.   3. 

/ 

VERY  thing  in  his  clutch  but  that  most  illusive 
of  all  phantoms — happiness !  " 

What  was  happiness  after  all  but  the  adjustment  of 
one's  material  resources  to  the  peculiar  necessities  of 
one's  material  organism  ?  And  what  limit  was  there 
to  a  man's  power  to  so  adjust  matters,  save  the  limit 
of  his  capacity  for  enjoyment?  With  wealth  enough 
to  warrant  a  certain  latitudinarianism  and  an  elastic 
creed  by  which  to  adjust  an  elastic  conscience,  why 
should  he  despair  of  yet  wooing  the  phantom  to  be- 
come his  bosom's  guest.  Because  it  floated  further  and 
further  away  from  Anna's  frozen  breath,  because  his 
solemn-eyed  Effie  frightened  it  £.way  with  her  sacri- 
ficial attitude,  must  he  give  over  the  pursuit?  He 
never  gave  over  any  thing ! 

What  Juno  and  Iphegenia  denied  him,  Hebe  should 
supply!  There  are  some  things  that  no  amount  of 
preparation  prepares  for.  So  it  was  without  any  use- 
less preamble  that  Mr.  Quinby  said  suddenly  to  his 
wife,  Effie,  one  morning,  standing  hat  in  hand,  ready 
for  departure : 


254  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  Effie,  I  have  decided  to  go  through  the  Endow- 
ment House  in  a  week  from  to-day  with  Barbara 
Hickman.  It  will  be  scarcely  worth  while  to  establish 
her  separately,  we  being  all  of  one  faith,  and  she  will 
be  to  you  as  a  younger  sister.  You  will,  I  am  quite 
sure,  find  her  docile  and  helpful.  She  has  much  to 
learn,  and  I  trust  in  you  she  will  find  a  friend  both 
willing  and  able  to  be  her  guide  and  counselor  in 
material  things  as  well  as  spiritual.  The  small  room 
over  the  library  will  answer  for  her  accommodation. 
Be  so  kind  as  to  see  that  it  is  put  in  a  state  of  readiness 
for  her,  will  you,  dear?  " 

Then  he  had  kissed  her,  and  gone  away.  She  sat  a  long 
time  white  and  still  where  he  had  left  her!  What  did 
this  wild  protest  in  her  heart  mean  ?  Why  had  she  not 
borne  in  mind  that  this  chalice  would  some  day,  sooner 
or  later,  be  presented  to  her  own  lips — lips  that  closed 
themselves  so  rebelliously  against  the  draught !  Now 
for  the  first  time  it  dawned  upon  her,  how  bitter  the 
cup  her  own  hand  had  held  to  Anna's  lips  !  She  sank 
slowly  upon  her  knees,  and  implored  God  not  to  for- 
sake her  in  this  the  hour  of  her  sore  need.  She 
reproached  herself  in  bitter  self-abasement  for  shrinking 
back  in  cowardice  when  the  hour  for  vindicating  her 
faith  came  upon  her.  She  importuned  Him  to  grant 
her  strength  in  proportion  to  her  mighty  need.  And 
when,  a  little  later  on,  Mrs.  Shaw  made  her  appearance, 
she  thought  (naturally,  as  she  could  not  know  that  the 


CLASS  NO.  3.  255 

bishop's  wife  was  only  complying  with  Mr.  Quinby's 
request)  that  God  had  sent  His  prophetess  to  rebuke 
her  for  her  faltering  faith  in  His  divine  plan  of 
redemption. 

Mrs.  Shaw  spent  the  day  with  her.  John  did  not 
come  home  to  lunch.  When  he  did,  his  wife  twined 
her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  said,  in  that  low,  tense 
voice  of  hers,  that  seemed  forever  attuned  to  tragedy: 

"  I  felt  rebellious  this  morning,  husband ;  but  I 
think  God  has  forgiven  me.  You  will  find  things  in 
readiness  for  Barbara  when  you  bring  her  here  as 
your  wife."  Her  voice  faltered  over  the  last  word,  and 
she  grew  so  ghastly  white  that  he  clasped  his  arms 
tightly  about  her  to  prevent  her  falling.  She  smiled 
faintly  up  into  his  anxious  face.  "  It  is  nothing,"  she 
said,  "  I  am  ashamed  of  my  own  weakness  I  I  will  be 
better  pres — ent — ly  !  "  Her  head  sank  heavily  on  his 
bosom — she  had  fainted  ! 

On  the  morning  when  her  husband  was  to  bring  his 
new  wife  home,  Effie  fluttered  about  her  pretty  cottage 
in  a  state  of  restlessness  altogether  uncontrollable. 
She  was  glad,  she  told  herself,  with  pathetic  humil- 
ity, that  John  had  given  her  a  week  in  which  to  prepare 
for  it.  Mrs.  Shaw  had  spent  a  great  deal  of  the  time 
with  her,  and  had  said  many  comforting  and  strength- 
ening things.  Mrs.  Shaw  assured  her  that  after  the 
first  wrench  of  seeing  Barbara  sharing  equal  rights  and 
privileges  with  herself,  she  would  come  not  to  mind  it. 


256  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

Mrs.  Shaw  had  been  through  it  all  herself,  and  had 
found  peace  and  happiness  behind  what  looked  like  a 
very  black  veil.  It  was  only  her  inexperience  that 
made  it  seem  so  hard  to  bear.  Perhaps  God  had  laid 
this  trial  upon  her  that  she  might  be  instrumental  in 
Barbara's  sanctification.  Had  she,  Effie,  been  giving 
the  martyrs  of  old  her  almost  envious  meed  of  praise 
and  adoration  all  these  years,  to  shrink  back  in  terror 
at  this  first  opportunity  of  winning  a  like  crown  with 
them  ?  Whatever  else  befell,  the  new  wife  must  see 
nothing  of  the  commotion  her  coming  had  caused' in 
her  predecessor's  bosom. 

She  was  in  the  pretty  bedroom  over  the  library, 
waiting  there  to  receive  the  bride  when  John  should 
bring  her  from  the  Endowment  House.  They  must 
meet  first  of  all  alone.  She  had  stipulated  for  that 
when  her  husband  had  gone  away  from  her  to  repeat 
the  vows  he  had  made  twice  before. 

"When  you  bring  her  back,  John,  tell  her  to  come 
up  stairs  and  to  enter,  without  knocking,  the  door  that 
has  a  white  satin  ribbon  tied  about  the  knob." 

"  Don't  fire  over  her  head,  Effie,"  he  had  said,  laugh- 
ing nervously ;  "  you  know  Barbara  is  nothing  but  a 
simple,  modest  peasant  girl,  and  your  transcendentalism 
will  be  so  much  Greek  to  her.  All  I  ask  for  her,  and 
all  she  will  ask  for  herself,  is  kind  treatment  at  your 
hands." 

But  it  was  not  a  "simple,  modest  peasant  girl  "  who 


CLASS  NO.  3..  257 

entered  "  without  knocking,"  and  stood  unabashed  in 
Effie's  presence,  taking  in  every  detail  of  the  pretty 
room,  after  one  cool  nod  toward  the  quiet  lady,  who 
stood  for  a  second  in  anguished  irresolution.  How 
handsome  she  was,  this  English  peasant  girl,  with  her 
large,  unimpassioned  ox  eyes,  her  brilliant  complexion, 
and  her  red,  red  lips,  now  wreathed  in  triumphant 
smiles!  And  how  voluptuously  beautiful  the  full  round 
outlines  of  her  youthful  form  were !  A  trifle  coarse, 
perhaps,  and  the  face  altogether  unspiritual,  but  a 
handsome  woman  by  every  rule  of  physical  perfection. 

"  Barbara!"  Effie  said,  walking  resolutely  toward 
her  with  extended  hands.  "  Your  rights  here  are  now 
the  same  as  mine,  and,  God  helping  me,  I  will  try  to 
never  lose  sight  of  that  fact.  I  will  treat  you  as  a 
sister  and  ask  you  to  do  the  same  by  me." 

"Oh!  I  dare  say  we  shall  get  on  well  enough 
together,"  says  Mrs.  Barbara  Quinby,  seating  herself 
placidly  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  as  she  wrestled  with 
her  new  kid  gloves.  "  I  never  heard  that  you  was  par- 
ticularly fussy,  and  I  ain't  overly  given  to  wordiness 
myself.  I'm  sure  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  John  for 
bringing  me  here,  'stead  of  taking  me  to  Anna's.  She 
and  me  couldn't  'a'  got  along  a  week  together.  It's 
real  handsome  of  you  to  fix  my  room  all  ready  for  me." 

Her  gloves  disposed  of,  she  threw  her  new  bonnet 
beside  them  on  the  bed,  and  walked  over  to  the  mirror 
to  re-arrange  her  shining  yellow  hair.  She  was  hand- 


25&  THE  BAR-SINIS7'ER. 

somer  without  her  bonnet  than  in  it.  Her  fair  hair  was 
so  abundant  and  glossy,  and  she  had  made  such  a  study 
of  its  arrangement.  Effie  followed  her  motions 
in  wordless  attention.  What  should  she  say  next  ? 
How  hard  it  was  to  have  to  say  any  thing  at  all 
to  that  coarse,  beautiful  usurper,  standing  there 
smoothing  her  pretty  hair  down  with  her  large, 
well  shaped  hands,  that  were  rough  from  a  life- 
time of  menial  labor.  What  she  did  say  caused  the 
new  wife  to  stare  at  her  in  a  puzzled  way : 

"  Barbara !  will  you  tell  me  why  you  wished  to 
marry  my  husband  ?  " 

The  new  Mrs.  Quinby  stared,  laughed  loudly  and 
said  candidly:  "Because  he  is  the  only  man  I  ever 
loved." 

"  Then  you  do  not  regard  this  step  of  yours  as  taken 
in  obedience  to  a  Divine  Command?" 

"  I  don't  think  of  it  at  all  in  that  way.  I'm  glad 
Mormonism  has  made  it  possible  for  me  to  be  happy 
with  the  only  man  I  care  for.  I  fell  in  love  with 
John's  picture  way  back  yonder  in  'Lizabeth,  when  I 
hired  to  Anna  to  nurse  little  Abbott,  and  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  hope  of  the  very  thing  happening  that 
has  happened  to-day  I  shouldn't  'a'  budged  one  step 
out  of  the  State.  But  I  hope,"  she  added  irritably, 
"  we're  not  going  to  be  a  discussing  the  rights  and 
wrongs  of  the  thing  every  day  of  our  lives." 

"  No,    oh    no.     That  would  be  not  only  harrowing, 


CLASS  NO.  3.  259 

but  very  unprofitable.  I  hope  some  of  these  days  you 
will  see  the  spiritual  significance  of  the  tie  you  have 
formed  to-day.  I  want  to  help  you  to  that  knowl- 
edge." 

"  Oh,  mercy  !  John  told  me  so  !  " 

"  Told  you  what,  Barbara  ?  " 

"  That  I  mustn't  let  you  make  me  miserable  with 
your  tran — tran — oh,  fudge,  I  don't  know  what  the 
word  was,  it  was  so  everlastingly  long,  only  I  know  it 
meant  cranky.  I  hope  you  ain't  cranky  about  every 
thing  -else  too.  I  assure  you  I  mean  to  do  my  part 
toward  keeping  things  smooth  and  easy  for  poor 
John.  Come,  let's  kiss  and  be  friends.  You  don't  know 
how  good  I  can  be,  when  folks  treat  me  right,  and 
that's  what  Anna  never  done.  She  was  always  rough- 
ing me  up  the  wrong  way.  Come  now,  do  be  jolly. 
You  know  men-folks  can't  abide  sour  faces  at  the  din- 
ner table;  it  don't  agree  with  their  digestion.  I'm 
hungry  as  two  bears.  Wasn't  that  our  bell  I 
heard  ?  " 

She  stood  still  waiting  for  Effie  to  take  the  lead. 
She  had  never  willingly  sustained  a  share  in  an  argu- 
ment in  her  life.  She  wasn't  going  to  begin  now.  She 
was  quite  aware  of  her  mental  inferiority  to  her  hus- 
band's other  wives,  but,  she  reflected  in  triumph, 
"  John  had  married  her  for  her  beauty,  and  as  long  as 
that  lasted,  she  could  wield  an  influence  more  potent 
than  either  of  her  rivals."  She  moved  suggestively 


260  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

toward  the  door.  She  felt  restive  under  the  spell  of 
those  grave  eyes  following  her  every  motion. 

"  I'm  going  to  hunt  up  our  lord  and  master,"  she 
said  with  a  flippant  laugh,  looking  back  over  her 
shoulder  as  she  disappeared  through  the  door. 

Errie  followed  more  slowly.  She  was  just  in  time  to 
see  Mrs.  Barbara  spring  lightly  from  the  third  step 
into  her  husband's  arms  as  he  stood  in  the  hall  below, 
apparently  waiting  for  them.  She  kissed  him  with 
audible  rapture,  then  moved  on  into  the  parlor  with 
childish  curiosity  to  examine  things.  How  hard  it  was 
for  Effie  to  descend  the  stairs  and  join  them.  How 
hard  it  was  for  her  not  to  refuse  the  kiss  her  husband 
offered  as  token  of  fond  impartiality.'  How  hard  it 
was  for  her  to  open  her  tightly  closed  lips,  and  assign 
Barbara  her  seat  at  the  table.  How  hard  it  was  for 
her  to  believe  that  Mrs.  Shaw  was  right  in  saying  all 
the  pain  was  in  the  first  wrench.  How  hard  it  was 
for  her  to  keep  from  screaming  aloud  in  her  agony  at 
the  thought  of  hourly  companionship  with  this  flippant, 
unspiritual  woman.  She,  who  had  always  shrunk  from 
coarseness  as  from  contamination.  Oh,  if  John  had 
only  brought  a  lady  to  be  "her  daily  companion — one 
who,  like  herself,  could  have  realized  that  life  meant 
more  than  eating  or  drinking  or  dallying — one  who 
would  have  helped  her,  and  whom  she  could  have 
helped  to  a  better  understanding  of  woman's  mission 
on  earth  !  How  he  seemed  to  enjoy  the  ignorant  prat- 


CLASS  NO.  3.  261 

tie  of  this  beautiful  girl !  Even  her  loud  laugh  did  not 
seem  to  shock  him.  Was  John,  after  all,  himself  of 
the  earth,  earthy  ? 

Ferdinand  Cosgrove's  words  rang  in  her  ears  day  and 
night.  They  pierced  her  flesh  like  thorns — pursued 
her  like  tongues  of  flame  ! 

"  What  has  the  religion  you  practice  done  for  human- 
ity, done  for  you  ?  It  has  cursed  your  home,  stained 
your  soul,  and  left  you  at  the  mercy  of  man's  most 
brutal  instincts ! " 

Why  was  it  that  of  all  the  fierce  hot  words  he  had 
spoken  to  her  on  that  dreadful  morning  those  only  re- 
mained and  would  not  be  forgotten  ?  Was  it  because 
the  spirit  of  immortal  truth  informed  them  and  they 
could  not  die  ?  Had  it  cursed  her  home  ?  The  re- 
morseful tenderness  with  which  she  hovered  about  the 
wrecked  and  ruined  head  of  that  home  was  her  plea  of 
"guilty"  to  the  charge.  Had  it  stained  her  soul? 
The  fierce  human  hatred  and  jealousy  and  envy  of  her 
husband's  new  wife  that  she  felt  stirring  within  her,  to 
her  own  shocked  surprise,  made  her  doubt  for  the  first 
time  since  her  fanatical  adoption  of  the  new  gospel 
that  she  was  achieving  ,that  triumph  of  the  spiritual 
over  the  carnal  which  was  to  be  her  reward  for  morti- 
fying the  flesh  !  Had  her  religion  left  her  at  the  mercy 
of  man's  most  brutal  instincts  ?  She  read  the  answer 
writ  in  letters  of  fire  upon  the  face  dearest  to  her  on 
earth.  She  read  it  in  her  husband's  fierce,  consuming, 


262  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

sensual  passion  for  the  low-born  beauty  whom  he  had 
taken  to  wife  and  who  rapidly  gained  that  ascendency 
over  him  that  is  only  gained  by  women  of  Barbara's 
type  when  man  becomes  false  to  his  own  better  self 
and  sinks  to  the  level  of  brutes. 

From  the  moment  that  doubt  entered  the  pure,  if 
mistaken  soul  of  Dr.  Ambrose's  daughter  ;  doubt  of  the 
purity  of  the  dogma  to  whose  support  she  had  given 
the  unquestioning  allegiance  of  an  undisciplined  heart, 
hungering  for  other  food  than  her  starved  surround- 
ings had  ever  furnished  her;  doubt  of  the  sufficiency 
of  the  new  gospel  to  supply  these  cravings  ;  she  began 
slowly  but  surely  to  fade  from  off  the  face  of  the 
earth. 

Poor  Effie !  the  problem  of  her  life  was  too  hard  for 
her  to  solve  in  Christless  effort. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE   PROBLEM   SOLVED. 

LOWLY  but  surely — not  flinging  away  the  faith 
that  had  proven  to  her  but  a  broken  reed,  with 
the  petulant  haste  of  a  disappointed  child — not  with 
the  imperative  disdain  of  a  high-strung  nature  thrown 
rudely  back  upon  itself  in  an  anguish  of  despair  over 
its  own  blindness — surely  but  slowly  Effie  was  coming 
to  doubt  the  divine  origin  of  the  dogma  which,  stripped 
from  that  all-sufficient  cause,  was  revealed  to  her  in 
its  true  hideousness,  leaving  her  bereft  and  comfort- 
less. 

It  was  only  after  many  days  that  the  change  in  her 
became  apparent  to  Barbara,  absorbed  in  her  own  recent 
exaltation  to  the  pinnacle  of  happiness,  and  through 
her  was  made  known  to  Mr.  Quinby  in  a  burst  of 
petulant  anxiety  not  altogether  selfish. 

No  one  had  ever  heard  Effie  utter  a  complaint.  Her 
gentle  consideration  for  all  who  came  within  the  sphere 
of  her  influence  was  absolutely  unfailing.  She  only 
gave  over  her  earnest  efforts  to  arouse  Barbara  to  a  less 
groveling  conception  of  life  and  its  terrible  meaning, 
when  she  found  those  efforts  entirely  thrown  away  on 
the  obstinate  and  obtuse  beauty.  Gradually  her 


264  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

supremacy  in  the  household  slipped  into  Barbara's  more 
vigorous  hands,  and  she  was  content  it  should  be  so. 
That  look  in  her  eyes  as  of  one  still  searching  after  the 
unattainable,  still  seeking  to  know  the  unknowable, 
deepened  day  by  day.  And  the  look  of  resignation 
that  came  into  her  sweet,  sad  face  was  unsanctified  by 
the  joyousness  of  the  Christian's  sure  hope.  It  soon 
got  to  be  a  formula  with  her — "When  I  am  gone." 
She  said  it  quietly  like  one  who  foresees  the  date  of  a 
long  journey,  but  it  was  depressing  to  the  robust  Mrs. 
Barbara  Quinby,  and  Mr.  Quinby  was  called  upon  to 
lighten  her  depression. 

"  John,"  she  said  as  they  two  walked  the  veranda, 
as  he  smoked  his  after  dinner  cigar,  "  have  you  noticed 
that  your  wife  Effie  is  looking  white  and  peaked  of 
late?" 

"  No !  She's  never  particularly  robust  during  warm 
weather.  Perhaps  she's  in  need  of  a  change.  I'll 
speak  to  her  to-night  about  it.  Has  she  complained 
of  any  thing  in  particular?  " 

"  Oh !  Lord  no,  she  never  complains.  I  wish  she 
would.  A  body  would  get  a  chance  to  jaw  back  then. 
But  she'll  kill  me,  John,  with  those  eyes  of  hers." 

"  I  told  you  of  Effie's  peculiarities,  my  dear,  before 
I  brought  you  here.  She  is  what  we  may  call  a  relig- 
ious crank.  But  I  hoped  your  good  sound  common 
sense  would  make  a  counteracting  influence  in  my 
home  that  would  make  things  a  little  more  cheerful," 


THE  PROBLEM  SOLVED.  265 

"  And  haven't  I,  John  ? "  she  asked,  with  jealous 
resentment,  "  haven't  I  bettered  things  for  you  ?  Ain't 
you  happier,  John,  than  you  was  before  I  came?" 

"  Certainly,  my  darling,  certainly.  I'm  not  com- 
plaining of  you,  Barb,  my  beautiful  Barb ! "  He 
removed  his  cigar  long  enough  to  submit  to  one  of 
those  explosive  caresses  that  generally  punctuated  his 
talks  with  his  last  wife. 

"  There's  got  to  be  a  change  some  way  or  other, 
John,"  she  continued,  linking  her  arm  in  his  as  they 
renewed  their  walk.  '  "  If  my  baby's  born  under  this 
roof  it'll  be  a  religious  crank  too,  and'll  be  a  spouting 
scripture  at  us  before  it  gets  through  with  the  bottle." 

No  better  proof  of  John  Quinby's  deterioration  could 
be  given  than  his  ability  to  laugh  at  this  coarse  wit. 
That  he  was  deteriorating  both  mentally  and  physi- 
cally was  unquestionable,  although  he  still  maintained 
his  position  with  the  outer  world  as  a  man  of  shrewd 
sense,  strict  probity,  and  "  thoroughly  reliable." 
Messrs.  Ford,  Farnham  &  Co.  never  ceased  to  congrat- 
ulate themselves  on  the  success  of  their  Utah  venture. 
They  smiled  in  amusement  at  the  reports  which 
reached  them  of  Quinby's  having  turned  Mormon  and 
taken  unto  himself  two  more  wives.  They  exchanged 
stale  jokes  about  the  difficulty  of  getting  along  with 
one  woman,  and  counted  it  another  mark  of  Quinby's 
enterprise  that  he  should  undertake  three.  He  was 
still  quoted  in  Wall  street  for  the  benefit  of  struggling 


266  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

young  men.  It  was  whispered  in  commercial  circles 
in  Salt  Lake  City  that  "  Quinby  was  in  the  habit  of 
taking  a  little  too  much."  The  Saints  are  quick  to 
notice  any  lapse  of  morals  in  certain  directions.  They 
are  adepts  in  condoning  "  the  sins  they  are  inclined  to 
by  damning  those  they  have  no  mind  to."  Certainly 
he  was  not  the  suave,  genial  gentleman  he  was  when 
he  left  the  States.  His  once  elegant  figure  had  grown 
obese  in  outline  and  his  movements  were  correspond- 
ingly clumsy.  The  ruddy  freshness  of  his  complexion 
had  deepened  into  a  purplish  tint,  which,  combined  with 
his  short,  thick  neck,  made  apoplexy  a  not  improb- 
able contingency. 

He  looked  none  too  refined  now  for  the  handsome 
woman  clinging  to  his  arm  with  wifely  devotion,  as 
they  walked,  and  his  growing  carelessness  in  the  mat- 
ter of  dress  was  more  than  counterbalanced  by  Barb- 
ara's excessive  dressiness. 

Far  back  in  the  parlor,  whose  opened  windows  gave 
them  to  her  view  as  they  paced  to  and  fro,  lay  Effie  on 
a  sofa,  very  white  and  tired  looking,  as  of  one  who  has 
fought  a  hard  fight,  and  lies  acquiescent  under  defeat, 
conscious  of  but  one  desire  and  that,  for  the  end.  She 
wondered  why  she  suffered  no  more  pain  at  the  sight 
of  those  two,  walking  and  talking  and  enjoying  each 
other's  society,  as  she  and  John  used  to  walk  and  talk 
and  enjoy  each  other.  Not  that  Barbara  had  usurped 
more  than  her  share  in  their  husband — not  that  this 


THE  PROBLEM  SOL  VED.  267 

privilege  of  associating  with  John  was  less  hers  now, 
than  when  she  prized  it  so  dearly.  It  was  only  that 
her  time  had  come  to  drain  the  cup  of  humiliation, 
and  the  dregs  had  sickened  her  nigh  unto  death.  She 
had  dashed  the  cup  away  of  her  own  accord.  But  yet 
a  little  longer  tarrying  on  the  battle-field,  worn  and 
wounded>  and  then  there  came  a  soft,  tender  afternoon 
in  the  spring  time,  when  the  windows  were  all  opened 
wide  to  let  in  the  air  laden  with  the  breath  of  jonquils 
and  hyacinths — when  the  elms  that  shaded  the  cottage 
from  the  street  were  tasseled  with  pale  green — when 
the  birds  were  twittering  and  fluttering  in  anxious  quest 
of  desirable  nesting  spots.  When  the  day  of  resurrec- 
tion was  hailed  by  all  Christendom  with  glad  anthems 
and  rejoicing — when  Effie  Quinby,  propped  in  her  easy- 
chair,  looked  out  upon  the  bright  Easter  sunshine, 
knowing  that  no  other  sun  would  ever  rise  for  her,  and 
rejoicing  in  the  knowledge. 

The  little  parlor  was  full.  They  had  all  come  at 
her  bidding,  Anna  and  Anthony,  and  the  twins, 
and  Dr.  Ambrose  and  Ferdinand  Cosgrove,  and 
Bishop  and  Mrs.  Shaw,  and  John  Quinby  and 
Barbara,  and  the  family  physician  of  the  Quinbys, 
—the  same  who,  years  before,  had  begged  Anna  to 
believe  that  earth  had  no  sorrows  that  Heaven  can  not 
heal — and  for  the  time  being  all  the  warring  passions  of 
their  souls  were,  if  not  quelled,  quieted,  as  they  waited 
for  the  end,  sorrowing  with  a  common  sorrow, 


268  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

She- had  greeted  each  arrival  with  a  tender  smile  of 
welcome,  and  then,  when  they  were  all  there  she 
stretched  out  her  poor,  thin  hands,  the  one  to  her 
father,  the  other  to  Anna,  and  said  in  a  clear,  sweet, 
firm  voice :  — 

"  I  want  the  two  whom  I  have  wronged  most  to  sit 
close  by  me  while  I  talk  to  you  all.  Father — Anna — 
will  you  hold  up  my  hands  yet  a  little  while?  I  shall 
cease  from  troubling  soon." 

Anna  sank  upon  a  hassock  close  by  her  side,  and  gath- 
ered one  of  the  little  hands  in  both  her  own.  Dr.  Am- 
brose, on  the  other  side,  smiled  apologetically  on  the  anx- 
ious faces  about  the  chair,  as  he  patted  the  hand  Effie 
laid  in  his.  "  My  little  girl  is  tired,  you  know.  She's 
worked  too  hard  among  the  Mormons  !  My  daughter 
was  a  missionary,  you  know,  sir,"  this  by  way  of  formal 
introduction  of  his  darling  to  the  doctor,  whom  he 
recognized  as  a  stranger  among  the  familiar  faces. 
"  My  little  girl !  my  little  girl !  We  must  take  her 
home.  Ferd,  we  must  get  her  home." 

"  Thank  God  she  is  going  home,  sir,"  said  Ferdi- 
nand Cosgrove,  in  a  burst  of  uncontrollable  grief ;  then 
turned  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Don't  go,  Ferdinand,  I  want  you  here.  I  want 
you  to  hear  what  I  have  to  say.  Perhaps  it  will  make 
some  things  a  little  clearer  to  you.  Perhaps  it  will 
make  it  a  little  easier  for  you  to  think  kindly  of  me 
when  I  am  gone." 


THE  PROBLEM  SOL  VED.  269 

"You'll  break  my  heart!  Oh,  Effie,  Effie!  Be- 
tween  us  all  we've  killed  you.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  so 
savage  that  day,  but  the  words  leaped  out  of  their  own 
accord,  and— 

"  I  am  glad  they  did  !  oh,  so  glad,  my  friend.  And 
I  am  glad  to  go.  If  you  could  unsay  those  words  and 
I  could  go  back  into  the  error  of  my  ways,  do  you 
think  I  would,  Ferdinand  ?  Do  you  think  I  would 
give  up  the  light  and  the  truth  that  has  shone  upon 
me  only  when  all  other  light  and  comfort  failed  me, 
for  all  the  world  holds  dear?  I  am  glad  God  did  not 
smite  me  hastily,  in  his  wrath.  I  am  glad  He  chose 
rather  to  rack  this  poor  frame  with  slowly  consuming 
weakness,  else  I  had  had  no  occasion  for  that  dear 
friend  "  (her  eyes  rested  lovingly  on  the  white  haired 
doctor,  who  sat  with  his  arms  intwined  about  Anna's 
twins,  while  the  unchecked  tears  dropped  on  Comfort's 
yellow  curls),  "nor  would  I  have  come  to  feel  that  per- 
sonal love  for  the  Saviour,  that  makes  it  gain  to  die. 
Yes,  gain  to  die !  But  there  is  so  much  I  want  to  say 
to  each  one  of  you,  and  I  am  so  afraid  that  my 
strength  will  fail  me  before  my  apology  is  made.  Yes, 
apology,  dears — an  apology  for  my  whole  mistaken 
life. 

"  I  don't  know  how  long  ago  the  foolish  idea  got 
into  my  foolish  head  that  God  had  some  special  work 
for  me  to  do  in  this  world.  I  think  it  must  have  been 
after  mother  died  and  father  was  such  a  busy  man  and 


270  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

I  such  a  lonely  child,  that  I  took  to  reading  all  sorts 
of  books.  I  remember  reading  Fox's  Book  of  Martyrs 
over  and  over  again,  until  my  fevered  fancy  was  fired 
as  a  boy's  is,  I  suppose,  when  he  reads  of  soldiers  and 
battles,  and  wants  to  do  such  deeds  himself.  Then 
when  I  went  to  live  with  Aunt  Priscilla,  I  found  she- 
was  just  the  same  sort  of  woman  I'd  been  reading 
about.  She  would  have  been  a  martyr  if  she'd  lived 
in  the  times  when  martyrdom  reflected  glory,  and  so, 
instead  of  getting  cured  of  my  morbid  fancies,  I 
brought  them  all  home  stronger  than  ever.  I  did  not 
know  of  God  as  a  loving,  tender,  uplifting  friend, 
putting  us  into  a  glad  world  to  be  glad  ourselves*  I 
thought  I  had  to  work  out  my  own  salvation  through 
anguish  of  spirit  and  mortification  of  the  flesh,  and 
self-abasement,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  had  no 
one  with  whom  to  talk  about  my  foolish  fancies  until  you 
came,  Mrs.  Shaw.  I  do  not  reproach  you.  You  only 
taught  me  what  you  believed  yourself  and  what  I  so 
gladly  seized  upon  as  the  long  looked  for  guidance  for 
my  own  walk  in  life.  I  do  not  blame  you.  But  oh,  I 
beseech  you  to  look  well  into  it,  you  and  John  and 
Barbara,  I  beseech  you  all,  look  well  into  it  and  see  if 
the  religion  I  professed  and  you  still  hold  by  is  not  all 
a  foul  imrtake,  a  dark  tissue  of  lies  from  beginning  to 
end.  It  has  cost  me  my  Hie ;  but  I  count  that,  too,  as 
gain,  if  it  will  be  the* means  of  making  any  one  of  you 
in  this  room  turn  from  the  error  of  its  teachings  before 


THE  PROBLEM  SOL  1  '£Z>.  171 

it  is  too  late.  But  my  life  is  the  slightest  of  all  the 
penalties  that  have  been  laid  upon  me  by  an  angry 
God.  This  dear  head" — her  eyes  turned  wistfully 
upon  her  father's  bowed  head — "  has  been  bent  and 
whitened  by  my  awful  mistake.  I  left  him  desolate 

:.  broke  his  heart.  I  darkened  his  life  and  destroyed 
his  intellect.  The  religion  I  adopted  cursed  my 
home."  Ferdinand  Cosgrove  started  convulsively  as 
the  words  of  his  own  cruel  denunciation  of  her  flut- 
tered over  her  white  lips,  **  Don't  be  sorry  that  you 
said  it  first,  Ferdinand ;  it  was  a  trumpet-call  to  my 
nee.  It  was  an  awakening  thought  you  im- 
planted, that  was  all.  Be  good  to  father  always, 
dinand,  won't  you,  for  his  own  sake  and  for  my 
own,  too?  When  I  am  gone,  take  him  back  to  the 
home  I  left  desolate.  Bring  there  one  of  those 
sweet,  pure  girls  from  the  South,  one  of  the  sisters  you 
used  to  talk  to  me  about,  and  put  her  in  my  place. 
Open  my  rooms  and  let  her  enter  in  and  brighten 
them.  Ask  her  to  minister  to  father  as  I  ought  to 
have  done.  I  leave  my  father  and  my  home  to  you  as 
my  leg.-.. 

As  Ferdinand,  sobbing,  kneeled  and  pressed  his  lips 
reverently  to  the  hand  that    rested  on  her  father's 
white  locks,  John  Ouinby  made  a  step  forward,  his 
moody  face  flushing  daricly.    A  smile  of  seraphic  : 
played  around  his  wife's  wan  lips, 

M  My  poor,  unhappy  husband !    John,  since  the  true 


2^2  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

light  shone  in  upon  my  benighted  soul  I  have  prayed 
earnestly — oh,  so  earnestly — that  God  would  be  as  good 
to  you  as  he  has  been  to  me.  You  will  soon  conquer 
the  grief  you  feel  now.  Yes,  I  know  what  you  would 
say,"  as  he  strove  to  interrupt  her  ;  "you  would  ask  me 
to  forgive  you.  Ask  God,  John.  Your  sin  has  been 
against  Heaven's  first  law  of  order  and  I  was  a  partner 
in  your  guilt.  It  is  not  too  late.  For  the  sake  of  all 
you  love,  turn  from  Mormonism,  take  Anna  and  your 
children  back  to  the  States." 

A  passion  of  angry  grief  from  Barbara,  tempestu- 
ous and  undisciplined,  drowned  her  feeble  voice. 

"  Peace,  woman !  You  are  in  the  presence  of  God 
and  his  angels!  " 

It  was  the  Christian  doctor  whose  stern  voice  sub- 
dued the  tumult  of  Barbara's  passion  and  sent  her 
abashed  and  trembling  to  a  far  corner  of  the  room. 
But  Effie  called  her  back.  She  was  too  far  removed 
from  all  this  petty  strife  called  life,  to  resent  the  child- 
ish outburst. 

"  I  am  talking  for  your  good  too,  Barbara,  and  for  the 
good  of  your  unborn  child.  You  have  been  happy  with 
John — so  was  I.  You  think  yourself  indispensable 
to  his  happiness — so  did  I.  I  wish  I  might  think  that 
you,  too,  as  I  did,  believed  in  the  sacrificial  nature  of 
marriage  here  on  earth,  but  'you  would  not  let  me 
believe  it  of  you.  You  laughed  at  me  when  I  talked 
to  you  about  it.  You  have  not  been  unkind  to  me, 


THE  PROBLEM  SOLVED.  273 

Barbara,  especially  since  I  have  been  so  weak  and 
helpless.  When  I  am  gone  tjhere  will  be  no  one  to 
dispute  your  supremacy  in  my  pretty  home  ;  no  one 
to  share  your  husband's  smiles  and  tendernesses,  but 
oh,  Barbara,  what  will  it  profit  you  if  you  gain  the 
whole  world  and  lose  your  own  soul !  Think  of  it, 
poor,  ignorant  child,  and  go-to  a  long  suffering  Saviour 
for  guidance.  He  will  hear  you  and  He  will  help 
you,  as  none  on  earth  can,  Barbara." 

Her  voice  was  growing  perceptibly  weaker.  It  had 
sunk  almost  to  a  whisper.  The  words  came  at  longer 
and  longer  intervals.  She  turned  her  face  toward 
Anna  silently  weeping  by  her  side. 

"Tears,  Anna!  Tears  for  me!  My  poor  Anna, 
whose  heart  I  helped  to  pierce !  What  can  I  say  to 
you  ?  How  can  I  beg  your  forgiveness  humbly 
enough  ?  I  think,  dear,  I  will  know  that  my  peace  is 
made  with  you,  if  you  will  let  me  lay  my  hands  on  the 
heads  of  your  darlings  and  ask  God  to  bless  them 
and  keep  them  in  the  hollow  of  His  hands.  They  are 
girls !  They  will  grow  to  be  women,  perhaps,  and  will 
come  into  a  heritage  of  suffering.  My  prayer  for  you 
is  that  you  may  be  made  strong  enough  and  true 
enough,  may  have  wisdom  from  on  high  given  you  to 
help  you  rear  them.  Bring  the  little  ones  closer, 
please." 

They  brought  the  twins  to  her  knees.  In  unques- 
tioning obedience  to  the  mother,  whose  loving  sway 


274  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

was  all  they  knew  of  the  law  of  life,  they  kneeled  before 
the  dying  penitent.  Efjfie  laid  a  hand  on  each  shining 
head,  and  with  her  illumined  eyes  upraised  to  Heaven 
she  asked  God  to  fill  each  tiny  soul  with  knowledge 
and  truth  and  love  and  light. 

"  Light !  " 

She  repeated  the  word  in  a  clear,  ringing,  trium- 
phant voice !  It  was  the  last  sound  that  her  lips  ever 
formed  ;  her  head  fell  back  upon  the  cushions  of  her 
chair ;  a  tired  sigh  fluttered  from  her  tired  heart ; 
twice — three  times  the  soft  lids  rose  and  fell  over  the 
filmy  eyes.  With  the  anguish  of  a  condemned  soul 
traced  in  every  lineament  of  his  face,  John  Quinby  fell 
on  his  knees  before  his  dying  wife,  and  Esau's  bitter 
cry  burst  from  his  quivering  lips :  "  I^less  me  !  even 
me,  also,  O  my  wife  !  " 

But  Anthony  laid  his  hand  upon  his  arm  and  drew 
him  upward :  "  It's  too  late,  John  !  She  is  a  saint, 
indeed,  now ! " 

While  Ferdinand  Cosgrove,  liftinghis  streaming  eyes 
heavenward,  exclaimed  in  a  voice  of  fervent  rejoicing: 
"  O  grave,  where  is  thy  victory !  O  death,  where 
is  thy  sting ! " 

And  over  it  all  rose  the  heart-broken  wail  of  the 
lonely  father:  "  My  little  girl !  My  little  girl !  " 

Barbara  stood  alone,  forgotten  ! 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

AFTER    MANY    DAYS. 

WHEN  Ferdinand  Cosgrove  turned  from  the  grave 
where  all  that  was  mortal  of  Dr.  Ambrose's  daugh- 
ter had  just  been  laid,  his  chief  desire  was  to  take  the 
heartbroken  old  man  back  to  Elizabeth  with  as  little  delay 
as  possible,  and  he  set  about  making  immediate  arrange- 
ments to  that  end.  His  individual  affairs  were  easily 
controlled.  To  give  notice  to  the  proprietor  of  the  drug 
store  where  he  had  been  head  clerk  since  a  short  while 
after  his  arrival,  that  he  must  provide  a  substitute 
within  one  week,  and  then  to  dispose  of  that  week  so 
industriously  as  to  leave  no  time  for  brooding  over  the 
sorrow  that  had  altered  the  entire  complexion  of  his 
life,  was  all  there  was  to  do. 

This  last  week  Anna  claimed  the  doctor  for  her  own, 
so  Ferdinand  was  alone  at  the  hotel,  and  finding  soli- 
tude unendurable,  haunted  the  reading  rooms  more 
than  was  his  habit.  An  unusually  animated  conversa- 
tion was  occupying  the  attention  of  the  regular 
loungers  in  that  apartment  one  evening  as  he  dropped 
in,  in  search  of  better  company  than  his  own.  He  was 


276  THE  BAR-SINISTER, 

listlessly  indifferent  to  it  until  he  caught  its  general 
drift,  and  then  his  eager  interest  outstripped  that  of  the 
eagerest  listener  there. 

The  arrival  of  three  United  States  Commissioners  to 
enforce  the  new  law  was  the  topic  under  discus- 
sion, and  the  constitutionality  or  the  unconstitu- 
tionally of  that  law  was  being  hotly  debated. 

He  had  often,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  soul,  stig- 
matized the  government  that  failed  to  grapple  with 
this  hydra  of  Mormonism  as  cowardly  and  supine ! 
He  had  marveled  at  the  apathy  which  rendered  the 
nation  at  large  so  indifferent  to  this  foul  plague  spot. 
But  since  the  institution  of  polygamy  had  touched  his 
own  life  so  nearly,  scorching  and  shriveling  its  freshest 
and  brightest  aspirations,  he  had  been  painfully  alert 
to  every  word  concerning  it.  He  knew  that  the 
new  bill,  aiming  a  deadly  blow  at  polygamy,  had 
achieved  the  dignity  of  a  law.  But  that  it  would  ever 
be  any  thing  more  than  a  dead-letter  law  was  what  he 
most  feared.  The  difficulties  of  conviction  under  a 
jury  system  where  it  would  be  impossible  to  impanel 
twelve  men  adverse  to  the  system  would  virtually  nul- 
lify its  good  effects.  With  all  his  soul  he  wished  it 
God-speed,  and  with  all  his  mind  he  doubted  its  efficacy 
in  a  community  where  lying  was  regarded  as  admissi- 
ble for  the  defense  of  the  Church  institutions,  and 
where  even  the  women,  controlled  by  terror,  rallied  to 
its  support. 


AFTER  MANY  DA  YS.  277 

But  his  heart  leaped  within  him  at  this  first  indica- 
tion of  a  decided  step  toward  the  enforcement  of  the 
law  against  a  plurality  of  wives  !  With  savage  joy  he 
said  to  himself,  that,  if  he  could  "once  see  John 
Quinby's  baleful  eyes  gazing  upon  the  world  he  had 
made  so  dark  for  others  from  behind  prison  bars,  he 
would  be  satisfied." 

Brooding  sorrow  for  the  dead  was  swallowed  up  in 
burning  desire  to  visit  the  full  penalty  of  this  law  upon 
the  guilty  living.  He  was  willing  to  continue  on  with 
clerking  in  the  drug  store  to  maintain  himself,  while  he 
labored  to  Uiis  end.  He  was  willing  to  postpone  his 
home-going  indefinitely  if  he  could  but  carry  away  with 
him,  when  he  did  go,  John  Quinby's  punishment  as  a 
sweet  morsel  to  roll  under  his  tongue.  Having  gath- 
ered all  there  was  to  gather  from  the  reading  room 
gossips  he  went  back  to  his  own  room  to  mature  his 
plans.  He  would  have  to  work  without  that  coadjutor 
in  all  his  previous  attempts,  Anthony.  For  disapproving 
of  polygamy  was  one  thing  ;  bringing  a  brother  to 
judgment  was  another.  It  would  not  be  easy  to  work 
up  a  case  against  John  Quinby.  He  was  a  man  of 
wealth  and  position.  He  was  not  without  influential 
friends  both  in  Salt  Lake  City  and  in  the  States.  It 
would  be  hard  to  procure  an  indictment  against  him ; 
still  harder  to  secure  his  conviction  as  a  bigamist.  But 
the  game  was  worth  the  candle,  and  he  would  play  it 
out  to  the  bitter  end,  come  victory  or  defeat ! 


278  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

A  night  of  sleepless  meditation  on  the  subject  re- 
sulted in  a  decided  plan  of  action.  He  was  eager  for  the 
morning  to  come  that  he  might  put  it  into  immediate 
execution.  His  first  step  toward  it  was  to  ingra- 
tiate himself  promptly  with  the  most  accessible  of  the 
commissioners  and  to  intimate  to  him  that  if  he  had 
come  there  desirous  of  vindicating  the  majesty  of  this 
law,  it  was  in  his  power  to  deal  a  trenchant  blow  in  a 
direction  where  the  effect  would  be  far-spreading  and 
lasting. 

The  commissioner  was  conscientiously  minded  to 
perform  his  duty  without  fear  or  favor,  a»d  followed 
the  Southerner  to  his  own  room,  where  the  subject 
could  be  pursued  leisurely  and  privately.  Ferdinand 
placed  a  box  of  cigars  at  the  officer's  elbow,  and  light- 
ing one  himself,  began  bluntly  enough  by  saying: 

"  I  will  make  no  pretense  of  disinterestedness  in  this 
matter.  The  especial  case  I  pfopose  to  assist  you  in 
working  up,  is  that  of  a  man  who  has  wrecked  the 
life  of  one  of  my  dearest  friends,  and  has  planted 
thorns  in  my  own  pathway.  But  apart  from  that 
I  hold  it  to  be  the  duty  of  every  man  who  has,  by  any 
means  whatever,  obtained  any  light  on  this  subject  of 
Mormonism,  to  give  the  world  the  benefit  of  that 
light ;  and  God  helping  me,  I  shall  never  fail  to  do  so. 
You  will  find,  if  your  investigations  are  made  in  the 
spirit  of  earnestness,  that  what  you  have  heard  of 
Mormon  life  and  character  falls  far  short  of  the  truth. 


AFTER  MANY  DA  YS.  279 

Mormonism  is  a  hideous  menace  to  the  institutions  of 
the  rest  of  this  country.  It  has  taught  that  murder 
can  be  committed  to  advance  the  cause  of  the  Church, 
and  that  its  professed  priests  can  lie  to  serve  it.  The 
doctrine  of  the  Church  affords  its  devotees  every  op- 
portunity to  indulge  in  vice,  if  only  they  have  a  suffi- 
cient number  of  wives  sealed  to  them.  Blood  atone- 
ment is  a  doctrine  of  the  Church  that  has  been  openly 
practiced  and  secretly  taught.  To  the  apostate  the 
dreadful  doom  of  death  will  be  accorded  in  this  new 
dispensation.  It  is  told  you  that  Utah  women  accept 
polygamy  and  are  satisfied  with  it.  They  are  terror- 
ized into  acceptance  of  it  as  a  cross  put  upon  them  for 
their  sins.  When  polygamy  was  first  proclaimed,  they 
objected  to  it.  A  prophet  was  turned  loose  upon  them 
who  announced  that  the  new  order  was  the  dispensation 
of  God  and  must  be  obeyed  at  the  peril  of  the  Saints' 
souls.  Whoever  questioned  the  morality  of  a  plurality 
of  wives  should  be  damned.  They  make  one  think 
Brigham  Young  was  right  in  saying  that  women  have 
not  sense  enough  to  judge  a  religious  system  intelli- 
gently. The  trouble  is  it  is  not  a  question  of  the  in- 
tellect with  them.  It  is  altogether  a  matter  of  the 
emotions,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  how  years  of  terror- 
izing debase  their  emotional  natures  into  seeming  ac- 
quiescence with  this  vile  order  of  things.  But  occa- 
sionally the  poisoned  virus  of  Mormonism  touches  the 
sensitive  flesh  of  those  who  by  every  law  of  nature  and 


280  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

of  reason  ought  to  be  secure  from  the  foul  infection  ; 
and  then — oh,  God,  the  subject  sickens  my  soul !  " 

"  Let  us  come  to  the  individual  case  you  hinted  at," 
said  the  commissioner,  not  unkindly,  for  it  was  not 
hard  to  trace  the  marks  of  personal  suffering  on  the 
handsome  young  face  before  him. 

"  Yes — yes.  Let  us  come  to  that.  I  want  to  place 
in  your  possession  the  points  that  may,  that  ought  to, 
and  by  heaven  !  I  hope  will,  lead  to  the  conviction  of 
one  of  the  wealthiest  men  in  this  city  as  a  bigamist." 

"  His  name  ?  "  The  commissioner  took  out  his  note- 
book with  business-like  alacrity. 

"John  Quinby." 

"  I  suppose,  Mr.  Cosgrove,  you  are  prepared  to  sub- 
stantiate all  the  statements  you  make  concerning  this 
Mr.  John  Quinby?"  said  the  commissioner  as  he 
entered  the  name. 

Ferdinand  flushed  ominously  and  his  voice  was  thick 
with  passion  as  he  answered  :  "  Not  only  prepared  to 
substantiate  them,  sir,  but  to  be  personally  responsible 
for  them  if  need  be." 

The  commissioner,  a  mild-mannered,  elderly  man, 
laughed  in  amusement  at  this  ready  wrath. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  don't  fly  off  so  readily.  I  merely 
meant  to  intimate  that  the  assertion  of  your  belief  that 
Mr.  John  Quinby  was  a  bigamist,  as  we  call  it,  would 
go  a  very  short  way  toward  accomplishing  the  ends  of 
justice,  or,"  he  added,  significantly,  "  of  revenge,  either, 


AFTER  MANY  DA  YS.  281 

unless  you  can  prove  it  so  by  the  most  conclusive  and 
irrefragable  testimony.  I  suppose  you  are  prepared 
to  do  that  ?  " 

"  If  the  acknowledgment  of  a  woman  as  a  man's 
wife,  the  bearer  of  his  name,  and  her  presence  under 
his  roof  during  the  life-time  of  other  wives,  proves  any 
thing,  I  am  ready  to  prove  that." 

"  So  far,  so  good  !  Now  then,  my  young  friend,  since 
you  have  declared  your  willingness  and  your  ability  to 
prove  this  charge,  perhaps  you  won't  mind  telling  me 
how  you  are  going  to  prove  it." 

"  How!  "  Ferdinand  looked  at  the  shrewd  face  be- 
fore him  with  momentary  perplexity.  In  his  youthful 
inexperience  it  had  never  come  to  him  to  observe  what 
wide  margins  lie  between  law  and  equity,  and  what 
labyrinthine  mazes  one  must  thread  to  reach  the  crystal 
palace  of  truth. 

"  How  !  "  he  repeated  ;  "  why,  I  can  take  you  to  one 
of  this  man's  houses  and  introduce  you  to  a  Mrs. 
John  Quinby,  and  then  to  another,  and  introduce  you 
to  another  Mrs.  John  Quinby. 

"Good!     And  will?" 

"And  will." 

"  This  evening  let  it  be,  then." 

And  that  evening  for  the  first  time  since  the  day  of 
Effie's  funeral  Ferdinand  lifted  the  latch  of  the  front- 
gate  to  the  house  he  had  thought  never  to  enter  again. 

"  I  shall  simply  say  that  two  gentlemen  want  to  see 


282  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Quinby,"  he  said,  as  they  reached  the 
front  steps. 

"  All  right.  You're  in  command  of  this  expedition. 
But  this  looks  to  me  uncommonly  like  a  vacant  house. 
You  don't  suppose  your  friends  have  retired  this  early 
in  the  evening  ?  " 

No  glimmer  of  light  was  visible.  The  shutters  were 
closed,  and  the  side-lights  to  the  front-door  revealed  an 
impenetrably  dark  interior. 

Ferdinand  rang  the  bell  sharply.  No  response 
rewarded  his  repeated  pulls  of  the  handle. 

"  Hallo,  here's  a  placard  ! "  said  the  commissioner 
who  had  been  slowly  pacing  the  veranda,  awaiting 
developments. 

Ferdinand  fumbled  for  his  match-box,  hastily  struck 
a  light  and  held  it  under  the  placard.  To  Let  stared  at 
them  in  big  black  letters.  He  gazed  at  them  silently 
until  the  match  burned  to  his  fingers,  and  then  he 
threw  it  away  with  a  wrathful  imprecation  on  John 
Quinby's  head. 

"  Flown !  "  said  the  commissioner.  "  It's  hard  to 
catch  a  weasel  napping." 

"  But  he  can  not  have  left  the  country.  He  has  a 
family  here — a  legitimate  family — wife  and  children  and 
brother." 

"And  doubtless,"  said  the  commissioner,  with  a 
laugh,  "will  be  for  some  time  to  come  the  most 
domestic  of  men  in  the  bosom  of  that  family." 


AFTER  MANY  DA  VS.  283 

"  But  is  there  no  other  way  of  working  this  thing 
up  ?  "  Ferdinand  asked,  griitding  his  teeth  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  defeat. 

"  None  that  I  can  think  of  on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 
Of  course,  it  will  be  the  business  of  the  prosecuting  at- 
torney to  work  this  material  up,  and,  to  the  end  that 
justice  should  be  meted  out  impartially  to  the  wealthy 
criminal  as  well  as  the  poor  one,  I  was  disposed  to  help 
gather  the  material.  But  as  it  is — hold  on  though,  do 
you  happen  to  know  whether  our  friend" — nodding 
toward  the  dark  house — "  has  any  children  by  this — 

"  Class  they  call  them,"  said  Ferdinand,  in  a  voice  of 
disgust.  "No, yes,  that  is  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  he 
has." 

"  A  trifle  vague.  I  hope  you  have  a  better  under- 
standing of  your  own  meaning  than  you  have  given 
me." 

"What  if  he  has?" 

"  Proof  of  the  paternity  of  the  child  may  lead  to  the 
conviction  of  the  father:  that  is  your  only  hope.  And 
your  first  duty  is  to  find  the  mother.  I  wish  you  joy 
of  the  search.  But  as  a  longer  stay  on  this  dark 
veranda  is  not  calculated  to  forward  the  interests  of 
society  or  morality,  suppose  we  walk  back  to  the 
hotel." 

"  You  don't  care  then  that  I  should  take  you  to  the 
other  house  there?" 

"What  for?     I  don't  in  the  least  doubt   we  would 


284  THE   BAR-SINISTER. 

find  everything  just  as  it  should  be  there.  Papa  in  the 
bosom  of  his  family,  a  model  of  all  the  virtues  for  the 
time  being,  etc.,  etc.  But  to  go  there  would  amount 
to  nothing  more  than  an  impertinence  without  an 
object." 

"  Doubtless  you  are  right.  But  the  thing  does  not 
stop  here."  And  in  crestfallen  silence  he  led  the  way 
back  to  the  garden  gate. 

To  find  Barbara — to  unearth  this  whole  affair,  that 
was  his  task.  He  was  impatient  of  the  delay  forced 
upon  him  by  the  night.  The  next  morning,  as  he  sat 
moodily  over  his  solitary  breakfast,  the  friendly  com- 
missioner walked  over  from  his  own  seat  at  another 
table,  and  laid  the  morning's  paper  down  before  Fer- 
dinand, pointing,  as  he  did  so,  to  an  item  among  the 
short  paragraphs : 

"  Mr.  John  Quinby,  our  esteemed  fellow-citizen,  has 
gone  East  on  business  for  the  firm  of  Ford,  Farnham  & 
Co.  We  trust  the  trip  will  prove  beneficial  to  Mr. 
Quinby's  health,  which  has  not  been  as  good  lately  as 
his  host  of  friends  would  wish." 

"  Curse  him !" 

That  was  Ferdinand's  low  spoken  comment  on  the 
friendly  paragraph,  and  the  officer  returned  to  his  own 
place,  ruminating  over  the  wide  reaching  of  the  evil 
that  not  only  contaminated  the  lives  of  those  who  ac- 
cepted it,  but  warped  and  marred  all  that  was  purest 
and  best  in  those  who  suffered  from  it. 


AFTER  MANY  DA  YS.  285 

"  That  boy,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  a  sweet-natured 
soul  as  ever  lived  naturally — one  can  see  it  in  his  face — 
is  consumed  by  a  fiery  thirst  for  revenge.  It  will 
become  his  ruling  passion." 

It  was  quite  clear  to  the  commissioner's  mind  and  to 
Cosgrove's,  that  John  Quinby's  sudden  departure  East 
on  business  for  his  firm,  amounted  to  nothing  more  nor 
less  than  a  fleeing  from  justice.  In  this  they  were 
altogether  mistaken.  Sunken  as  he  was  from  his  high 
estate  of  honor  and  manliness  and  probity,  no  overt 
act  of  cowardice  had  yet  added  its  lash  to  the  many 
with  which  his  conscience  smote  him. 

It  was  at  her  own  request  that  Barbara  was  removed 
from  the  cottage  which  her  ignorant  fancy  peopled 
with  haunting  sights  and  sounds,  until  her  often  re- 
peated declaration  that  "  she  would  go  crazy  if  she 
didn't  get  away  from  there  "  seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  be 
realized. 

Coming  home  from  his  business  place  a  week  after 
Effie's  death,  Mr.  Quinby  had  found  her  in  violent  hys- 
terics. She  threw  herself  into  his  arms  moaning  and 
sobbing,  and  talking  by  turns  : 

"  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer,  John.  I  can't — I  can't ! 
She's  looking  at  me  all  day  long,  with  those  wide-open, 
solemn  eyes  that  used  to  give  me  the  shivers  when  she 
was  here  in  the  body.  She's  no  more  silent  now  than 
she  was  then,  as  far  as  reproaches  goes— but  her  eyes — 
oh,  those  eyes !  If  I  go  back  to  the  little  room  that 


286  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

was  mine  when  I  first  came  I  see  them  looking  at 
me  from  the  chair  by  the  window,  where  she  sat  that 
first  day,  when  she  asked  me  why  I  wanted  to  marry 
her  husband !  If  I  go  into  the  room  that  used  to  be 
hers,  I  see  her  lying  back  upon  the  pillows,  so  white 
and  patient,  a  following  me  about  with  those  eyes, 
those  eyes !  If  I  walk  on  the  gallery,  even  when  you 
are  by  my  side,  John,  I  catch  the  gleam  of  those  big, 
sad  eyes,  as  she  lay  in  yonder  on  the  sofa,  watching 
you  and  me  passing  backward  and  forward !  It  used 
to  hurt  me  a  little  then,  John,  but  I  could  laugh  it  off 
then,  for  I  knew  I  had  as  good  a  right  as  she  had  to 
you,  for  the  Church  people  all  say  so,  and  if  them  that's 
been  studying  about  it  all  these  years  make  it  right, 
it's  not  for  me  to  say  it's  wrong  ;  and  maybe,  after  a 
while  it  will  all  seem  right  again,  John.  But  not  here ! 
Never  here!  I  can't  laugh  it  off  here,  John.  I 
doubt  whether  I'll  ever  forget  her  dying  words.  I 
tried  to  put  myself  in  her  place  before  she  went,  and  it 
helped  me  to  wait  on  her  more  like  a  servant  than  her 
equal  in  rights.  I  tried  to  think  how  I'd  'a'  felt  if  I'd 
been  here  first.  And  I  know  I'd  a  been  a  devil  to  her 
where  she  was  a  angel  to  me.  That's  what  makes  it 
hurt  so  bad  now,  John.  Oh !  it's  the  staying  on  here 
where  she  belonged,  where  her  books,  books  that  I 
don't  even  know  how  to  read,  John,  are  laying  all 
around,  like  they  was  waiting  for  her  to  come  back  and 
read  in  'em  again.  It's  the  piano,  staring  at  me  like 


AFTER  MANY  DA  VS.  287 

nothing  more  than  a  big  lump  of  rosewood,  now  she's 
gone,  and  I  too  stupid  and  ignorant  to  bring  any  thing 
but  horrible  discord  from  it.  It's  the  flowers  that  she 
tended  and  loved,  that  curl  up  their  leaves  and  drop 
dead  and  withered  as  if  it  weren't  worth  their  while  to 
bloom  any  longer  now  that  Effie's  gone.  It's  the  pretty 
trumpery  all  about  the  house  that  seemed  to  feel  her 
touch  and  always  looked  their  best,  if  she  did  but  turn 
one  of  'em  end  for  end.  You  go  out  to  your  office 
where  you  never  saw  her  in  the  flesh,  and  she  don't 
come  to  you  in  the  spirit,  so  you  can't  tell  what  it  is, 
but  it  '11  kill  me,  John,  if  I  stay  on  here.  I  can't  stand 
it — I  can't — I  can't !  " 

And  even  while  he  soothed  her  in  his  arms  and 
promised  her  that  she  should  be  taken  away  from  the 
cottage,  with  all  its  haunting  memories,  his  soul  was 
up  in  bitter  protest  against  her  childish  assumption 
that  oblivion  had  come  to  him  already.  Did  Effie 
not  come  to  him  in  the  spirit  ?  Did  she  not  follow 
him  away  from  the  home  where  she  had  endured, 
sorrowfully  of  late,  with  the  pathetic  dignity  of  a  de- 
throned queen,  out  into  the  street,  out  into  the  busi- 
ness mart,  down  among  the  money  changers?  Every- 
where, everywhere — always,  always.  Was  not  his 
daily  life  one  frenzied  effort  to  forget  the  words  of 
solemn  exhortation  she  had  addressed  to  him  and  Bar- 
bara conjointly  ?  Was  not  his  remorse-burdened  con- 
science turned  into  a  battle-field,  wherein  the  powers 


288  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

of  evil  and  good  did  perpetual  combat  for  supremacy? 
Was  not  the  cold  and  passive  hand  of  flesh  that  Anna 
conceded  to  his  clasp,  less  real  to  him  than  the  phantom 
hand  of  his  dead  wife,  held  up  in  warning  of  the  abyss 
toward  which  he  was  plunging?  Turn  where  he  would 
could  he  lose  sight  of  her? 

Barbara  was  right.  The  house  had  much  to  do  with 
it.  Neither  one  of  them  could  ever  recover  their 
equanimity  in  that  spot.  They  would  give  up  the  cot- 
tage so  soon  as  he  could  find  new  quarters  for  her.  It 
was  her  preference  to  board,  for  the  present  at  least. 
So  Mr.  Quinby  had,  without  much  difficulty,  found  a 
desirable  pl^ce  for  her,  far  in  the  outskirts  of  the 
city,  to  which  he  removed  her  with  as  little  delay  as 
possible. 

That  a  telegram  from  Ford,  Farnham  &  Co.,  de- 
manding his  presence  in  New  York  for  consultation  in 
some  proposed  changes  in  their  business,  should  have 
taken  him  out  of  the  city,  within  a  few  hours  of  the 
arrival  of  the  United  States  commissioners,  of  whose 
coming  he  was  in  profound  ignorance,  was  merely  one 
of  those  accidental  occurrences  that  force  of  circum- 
stances colored  into  circumstantial  evidence  of  his 
cowardly  flight  from  the  wrath  to  come. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

STORM   TOSSED. 

BARBARA  QUINBY  had  been  for  nearly  a  month 
the  proud  mother  of  a  son  in  whose  tiny  features 
it  was  her  perpetual  delight  to  trace  his  father's  linea- 
ments, when  the  woman  with  whom  she  was  boarding, 
hitherto  the  most  obsequious  of  landladies  (for  the 
Quinbys  had  her  best  rooms  and  were  "good  pay"), 
entered  her  room  with  a  clouded  face  and  asked  abruptly, 
as  she  closed  the  door  after  her  somewhat  boisterously  : 

"  When  do  you  expect  your  husband  back  from  the 
States,  ma'am?" 

Barbara  looked  up  at  her  in  angry  surprise.  She  was 
sitting,  as  she  sat  pretty  much  all  the  time  now,  with 
her  boy  in  her  arms,  his  tiny  head  pressed  close  to  her 
round,  white  breast,  while  with  her  right  hand  she  plied 
the  softest  of  downy  brushes  over  the  softest  of  downy 
heads.  It  was  delight  enough  for  her  to  sit  this  way 
hour  after  hour  watching  the  boy,  like  some  beautiful 
leopardess  with  her  young.  She  said  now,  with  a  pout 
on  her  full  red  lips : 

"  I  think  you  might  be  a  little  quieter,  Mrs.  Westlove, 
when  you  see  baby  is  asleep." 


2 po  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  There's  reason  in  all  things,"  says  Mrs.  Westlove, 
rather  inconsequently.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  disturb  the 
boy  and  I  don't  see  as  I've  done  it  either,  seeing  he's 
never  so  much  as  batted  a  eyelid.  But  what  I  come 
in  here  to  ask  you,  Mrs.  Quinby,  and  what  I  want  a 
answer  to,  is,  when  is  your  husband  coming  back  from 
the  States,  ma'am?" 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  acerbity  of  eye  and  voice. 
Barbara  was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  it. 

The  long  years  of  her  previous  servitude  and 
poverty  made  her  peculiarly  alive  to  such  influences. 
The  rich  Mr.  Quinby's  wife  answered  the  aggressive 
landlady  almost  timidly: 

"  I  really  can't  say  positively,  Mrs.  Westlove.  You 
know  when  Mr.  Quinby  left  he  told  you  that  you  must 
look  after  baby  and  me  carefully,  for  he  was  going  on 
business  that  might  keep  him  from  us  for  two  months, 
maybe,  and  baby  was  only  two  weeks  old  when  he  left. 
Is  it  money  you  want?  An  advance,  perhaps?  I  can 
let  you  have  it.  I  expect  I  have  given  you  extra 
trouble,  my  meals  brought  up  stairs  and  all  that,  but 
you  don't  need  to  wait  for  Mr.  Quinby's  return  for 
that.  I  have  my  own  check  book,"  she  added  quite 
proudly. 

"  Oh  !  bother  your  money,"  said  Mrs.  Westlove,  who, 
as  is  the  way  with  coarse-grained  folk,  waxed  ruder  in 
view  of  Barbara's  timidity  ;  "  money  can't  help  a  body 
out  of  every  sort  of  strait.  I  doubt  whether  it'll  do 


STORM  TOSSED.  391 

any  good  this  time,  'less,"  she  added  reflectively,  "  it 
might  help  you  to  buy  'em  off." 

A  look  of  alarm  came  into  Barbara's  face.  The 
steady  motion  of  the  ivory  backed  brush  over  the  baby's 
downy  head  ceased  ;  she  encircled  him  with  both  arms. 
Every  possibility  of  danger  involved  harm  to  her  boy. 
"  Please  talk  plainer,Mrs.  Westlove,  I  don't  seem  to  make 
sense  out  of  what  you  are  saying.  What  sort  of  strait  are 
you  in  ?  And  who  is  it  you  think  money  maybe  won't 
or  maybe  will  buy  off?" 

"  Well,  you're  about  right,  plain  talking  is  the  best 
way."  She  walked  over  to  the  window,  and  holding  the 
curtain  cautiously  aside,  she  peered  silently  out  for  a 
second,  then  suddenly,  and  without  turning  her  head, 
she  sent  her  voice  cautiously  back  toward  Barbara  : 

"  Put  the  boy  down  on  the  bed  and  come  here.  I've 
got  something  to  show  you." 

Barbara  obeyed  her  quickly  and  unquestioningly, 
then  joined  her  at  the  window. 

"  Do  you  see  that  fellow  over  yonder?"  Mrs.  West- 
love  asked,  "  directly  in  front  of  old  Shannon's  gate, — 
there,  now  he's  walking  toward  Elm  street — the  one 
with  the  gray  baggy  trowsers — now  he's  smack  under 
the  lamplight." 

"Yes!  I  see  him,"  says  Barbara,  impatient  of  this 
unnecessary  minuteness,  "but  what  of  him?" 

"A  good  deal  of  him,"  says  Mrs.  Westlove,  follow- 
ing the  man  in  the  gray  baggy  trowsers  with  resentful 


292  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

eyes.     "  He's  a  spy  !    He'll  tramp  there  till  midnight, 
then  leave." 

"  A  spy !  Spying  what  and  who  ?  "  Barbara  asked 
amazedly. 

"  That's  what  I  come  here  to  talk  to  you  about, 
ma'am,"  says  Mrs.  Westlove,  dropping  the  curtain  and 
settling  herself  rather  forcibly  in  a  chair.  Facing 
toward  Barbara,  with  a  hard  fixedness  of  purpose  in 
her  eyes  that  bespoke  unflinching  determination  to 
unburden  her  mind  of  all  that  was  still  on  it  she 
began : 

"  I've  been  supportin'  myself  by  takin'  in  boarders 
ever  since  Dave  Westlove,  that  was  my  husband,  de- 
parted this  life,  and  I  ain't  never  yet  had  a  breath  of 
scandal  blow  toward  me  or  my  house,  which  brings 
me  in  a  good  'nough  income  for  a  poor  lone  widow 
woman  with  only  one  mouth  to  feed,  and  so,  ma'am, — 

"  Scandal !  "  Barbara  brought  her  back  to  her  text 
with  summary  decision.  She  was  in  no  mood  to  submit 
quietly  to  Mrs.  Westlove's  diffusive  style  of  narration. 
"Yes,  scandal!  I  don't  mean  along  of  your  being  a 
Mormon  gentleman's  wife,  that's  all  right  'nough  until 
folks  gets  to  stirrin'  up  musses  with  their  new-fangled 
laws  and  bothersome  notions  'bout  right  an'  wrong.  I 
don't  say  but  what  you've  been  good  pay  and  no 
particular  trouble  to  me  either,  but  folks  is  that  squeam- 
ish, that  if  it  got  out  that  there'd  been  an  arrest  made 
from  my  house,  it  might  affect  my  lettin'  of  my  rooms 


STORM  TOSSED.  293 

so  easy,  you  see,  and   that's  what  made  me  ask  you 
—plump  out — when  your  husband  was  coming  back." 

"  But  I  don't  see  yet,"  says  Barbara,  quite  bewil- 
dered, "  what  all  your  talk  has  to  do  with  me  or  my 
husband  either!  " 

"  Oh,  bother,  it  takes  a  deal  of  plain  talking  to  make 
some  folks  see  through  a  grindstone  even  when  there's 
a  hole  in  the  middle  of  it.  You've  been  so  took 
up  with  that  baby  that  you  never  read  the  paper,  I 
s'pose?  " 

This  questioningly.  Barbara  blushed  to  the  very  roots 
of  her  blonde  hair.  She  did  not  dare  to  acknowledge 
that  she  never  read  any  thing,  she  simply  said  deprecat- 
ingly  : 

"  I  reckon  I  have  slipped  behind  the  times  since 
John  left." 

"  Well !  the  trouble's  all  along  of  this  new  law  that 
makes  it  bigamy  for  a  man  to  have  more  than  one 
wife.  I  knew  there'd  been  no  end  of  gabbling  about 
it,  but  it  seems  now  the  folks  at  Washington  has  sent 
some  men  over  here  to  carry  it  out,  and  I  do  hear 
they're  stirring  things  up  purty  lively  for  the  Saints." 

Barbara  blanched  to  the  very  lips  but  said  nothing  ; 
getting  up  and  walking  to  the  window  she  looked  out 
again  into  the  lamp-lighted  streets.  The  man  in  the 
gray  baggy  trowsers  was  still  pensively  promenading 
up  and  down  on  the  other  side.  Every  now  and  then 
he  stopped  and  cast  an  anxious  glance  skyward.  She 


294  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

followed  his  gaze.  Stormy  looking  clouds  were  scud- 
ding after  each  other  in  wind-driven  haste. 

"  Who  do  you  suppose  he  is  waiting  for  ?  "  she  asked, 
trying  to  make  her  voice  sound  altogether  careless  and 
indifferent  to  Mrs.  Westlove's  ears. 

"  Your  husband ! "  said  the  woman  with  coarse 
directness. 

Barbara  staggered  back  to  her  chair  as  if  she  had  been 
struck  a  mortal  blow. 

"  My  husband  !  How  dare  you  say  so?  No  one  would 
presume  to  trouble  Mr.  Quinby.  He  has  powerful 
friends,  and  plenty  of  money,  and  you  don't  know  that 
that  horrid  wretch  is  even  watching  this  house.  You're 
just  trying  to  kill  me  while  John's  gone.  Yes,  you  are, 
you  are ! " 

Mrs.  Westlove  looked  at  the  hysterical  creature  with 
placid  contempt  for  her  utter  lack  of  self-control. 

"  Kill  you !  I'd  like  to  know  what  in  the  name  of 

• 
common  sense  I  should  want  to  kill  you   for?     How'd 

that  help  me  to  save  the  good  name  of  my  house,  I'd 
like  to  know  ?  And  that's  about  all  I  can  afford  to 
look  after  now.  I  didn't  even  come  here  to  pester  you 
until  I  couldn't  help  myself.  But  charity  begins  at 
home,  Mrs.  Quinby,  an'  I'm  a  poor  lone  widow  woman 
which  can't  afford  to  have  spies  hanging  around  her 
house  day  and  night  like  she  was  suspected  of  harborin' 
criminals,  or  thieves,  or  murderers,  or  the  dear  knows 
what  beside." 


STORM  TOSSED.  295 

"  But  how  do  you  know  they  are  watching  this 
house  ?  "  asks  Barbara,  anxiously. 

"  Because  I've  got  sense  'nough  to  put  two  and  two 
together  and  tell  whether  it  makes  four  or  don't. 
Your  husband  hadn't  been  gone  out  of  town  more'n  a 
week  when  a  gentleman  (a  outer  an'  outer  he  was,  too) 
called  here  one  morning  and  asked  if  Mrs.  John  Quinby 
boarded  here  ?  I  said  yes,  but  I  didn't  think  you'd 
care  to  receive  visitors  as  you  hadn't  been  down  stairs 
since  your  baby  was  born,  but  I'd  see,  an'  he  said  he 
was  much  obliged,  but  he  didn't  care  specially  to  see 
you.  He  just  wanted  to  ask  if  I  could  tell  him  when 
Mr.  Quinby  was  expected  back,  an'  I  said  I  couldn't 
just  exactly,  but  I  thought  when  he  left  he  allowed  to 
be  gone  just  about  a  month  or  perhaps  six  weeks  or 
thereabout,  an'  ever  since  that  blessed  day,  there's  been 
an  eye  on  this  house." 

"  Mrs.  Westlove,"  says  Barbara  with  frightened  eyes, 
"  if  John  was  here  what  would  they  do  ?  " 

"Arrest  him  for  bigamy." 

"And  then?" 

"Put  him  in  jail." 

"And  then?" 

"  Send  him  to  the  penitentiary  for  life,  I  s'pose.  The 
folks  at  Washington  do  seem  to  be  gettin'  into  purty 
hot  earnest  about  it." 

"  But  you  have  to  prove  things  before  you  can  pun- 
ish a  man  for  them,  don't  you,  Mrs.  Westlove  !  " 


296  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  I  s'pose  you  do.  But  there  wouldn't  be  much 
difficulty  about  that  once  they  tracked  him  to  this  room," 
the  woman  answered  brutally,  nodding  toward  the 
sleeping  child. 

Barbara  looked  at  her  with  eyes  that  seemed  to 
plead  for  pity,  but  she  did  not  speak  again  for  a  long 
time.  Then  it  was  to  ask  : 

"  What  sort  of  looking  man  was  it  that  asked  if  I 
boarded  here  !  " 

"  Oh,  bother,  I  don't  carry  a  photograph  gallery  in 
my  head.  He  was  tallish,  and  darkish  and  slimmish — " 

"With  big  black  eyes?" 

"  Yes,  eyes  that  looked  like  blazing  coals  was  hid 
behind  'em  somewhere." 

"And  a  trick  of  pulling  at  his  long  mustache  while 
he  talks  ?  " 

"Yes  !  that's  him  to  a  dot.     Know  him?  " 

"  Yes,"  says  Barbara  through  her  clenched  teeth,  "  I 
know  him." 

"A  friend  of  your  husband's?" 

"The  worst  enemy  he  has  on  earth." 

"  Then  it's  a  bad  showing  all  around,"  says  Mrs. 
Westlove  moodily.  "  I  thought  maybe  it  was  some- 
body that  wanted  to  put  him  on  his  guard ;  but  if  it's  a 
enemy  I  wouldn't  care  to  stand  in  the  Quinby  shoes. 
Now  if  it  was  a  question  of  abstract  justice  your  money, 
if  you  used  it  free  enough,  might  help  you  over  what 
looks  to  me  like  a  purty  rough  row  of  stumps,  but  if 


STORM  TOSSED. 


297 


there's  personal  spite  mixed  up  in  it,  I  wouldn't  give 
shucks  for  your  husband's  chances,  "  with  which  bit  of 
acrid  moralizing  the  landlady  flounced  out  of  the  room, 
mentally  resolved  that  so  soon  as  day  came  again,  she 
would  give  Mrs.  Quinby  warning  that  she  wanted  her 
rooms  vacated  immediately.  She  wasn't  going  to  risk 
the  reputation  of  her  respectable  boarding  house,  by 
having  a  man  arrested  for  bigamy  under  its  roof. 

Barbara  sat  for  a  long  time  when  the  landlady  left 
her,  stunned  almost  beyond  the  power  of  connected 
thought.  That  Cosgrove  was  at  the  bottom  of  what 
she  called  in  her  bitterness  this  persecution,  she  did 
not  doubt  for  a  moment,  nor  did  she  doubt  that  he 
would  pursue  her  husband  with  the  patient  persever- 
ance of  a  sleuth-hound.  She  shuddered  as  her  imagi- 
nation conjured  up  a  horrible  vision  of  John  seized  on 
his  return,  by  the  merciless  officers  of  the  law.  John 
imprisoned — convicted — sent  to  the  penitentiary  for 
life !  But  to  bring  this  fearful  doom  upon  the  idol  of 
her  heart  they  must  prove  him  a  criminal.  With  Effie 
dead  and  herself  invisible  how  could  they  prove  any 
thing  against  John?  She  could  save  him — she  alone 
could  save  him.  She  would  fly  with  her  baby ;  fly  this 
very  night.  But  where?  She  did  not  know — she  did 
not  care.  Any  where,  any  where,  only  so  that,  by  her 
disappearance  she  could  blot  out.  all  testimony  against 
John.  She  laughed  in  triumph  at  the  thought  of  de- 
feating John's  enemy,  and  springing  to  her  feet  began 


298  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

excitedly  to  make  preparations  for  a  midnight  flight. 
She  peered  out  into  the  dark  night  once  more.  The 
flame  of  the  street  lamp  flickered  tremulously  under 
its  glass  shade  as  the  rising  wind  fanned  it  through  the 
crevices.  The  rack  of  storm-clouds  was  blacker  and 
heavier  than  when  she  last  looked  out.  The  man  in 
the  gray  baggy  trowsers  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  She 
cautiously  raised  the  sash  and  leaned  over  to  obtain  a 
better  view  of  the  street  immediately  under  her  own 
window.  He  was  standing  motionless  before  Mrs. 
Westlove's  door.  She  drew  her  head  back  with  a  low 
cry  of  alarm.  There  was  no  longer  any  room  for 
doubt  as  to  his  errand ;  but  she  would  defeat  it  yet. 
The  night  was  black  and  threatening.  She  was  far 
from  strong  yet.  She  tottered  even  now  as  she 
went  about  hastily  dressing  herself  in  a  plain  black 
dress  and  making  up  a  bundle  of  clothes  for  her  baby, 
and  concealing  her  money  on  her  person  and  making 
every  thing  ready,  so  that  when  the  house  should  become 
quite  still  and  the  spy  out  yonder  should  have  gone 
away  for  the  night,  she  could  slip  out  and  go — where  ? 
She  had  a  vaguely  defined  purpose  of  finding  her  way 
to  a  railroad  station  and  taking  the  first  train  that  left 
the  city  for  any  direction,  it  didn't  the  least  matter 
which,  and  then,  when  she  had  put  a  safe  distance  be- 
tween them,  she  would  write  and  tell  John  where  she 
was  and  why  she  had  done  this  thing.  She  would  not 
leave  a  single  word  in  writing  for  him,  for,  in  her  child- 


STORM   TOSSED.  299 

ish  ignorance,  she  did  not  know  what  sort  of  a  missile 
for  John's  destruction  it  might  turn  to  in  the  hands  of 
his  persecutors.  She  could  not  notify  him  beforehand 
of  her  plans,  for  he  might  appear  at  any  moment,  and 
then — she  moaned  aloud  as  the  horrible  possibility 
of  his  arrest  stared  her  in  the  face.  The  clock  on  the 
mantle  struck  twelve.  She  made  one  more  pilgrimage 
to  the  window;  the  street  was  silent  and  deserted.  Tying 
her  bonnet-strings  tightly  under  her  chin  with  trem- 
bling hands,  feeling  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress  to  make 
sure  the  roll  of  bills  was  where  she  had  secreted  it, 
she  gathered  her  sleeping  baby  in  her  arms  and  stole 
silently  down  the  stairs,  feeling  her  way  by  the  banis- 
ters, fearful  that  a  mis-step  might  disturb  the  child  and 
arouse  the  household.  She  noiselessly  unbolted  the 
front  door  and  crept  through  it  out  into  the  dark  and 
blustering  night.  She  stood  still  for  a  second  only  and 
trembled  as  the  rude  wind  seized  upon  her  shawl  and 
set  it  flapping  violently  about  the  little  form  she  held 
in  a  close,  firm  clasp,  then  she  walked  resolutely  down 
the  steps  and  out  into  the  street.  She  was  in  a  part  of 
the  town  she  knew  nothing  of.  Her  husband  had 
brought  her  there  in  a  carriage  from  their  old  home. 
She  scarcely  knew  which  way  to  turn  to  find  the  rail- 
road station  she  aimed  for.  The  storm  that  was  now 
advancing  with  low,  distant  mutterings,  frightened  and 
bewildered  her.  All  through  her  ignorant  life  a  thun- 
derstorm had  been  fraught  with  mysterious  terrors  for 


300  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

her.  For  one  irresolute  moment  she  harbored  the 
wish  to  go  back  to  the  shelter  of  Mrs.  Westlove's 
house  and  let  things  take  their  course.  Then  she  re- 
proached herself  bitterly  for  treachery  to  John.  The 
lurid  lightning  flashes  that  illumined  her  way  gave  her 
confused  glimpses  of  darkened  houses,  closed  doors, 
deserted  streets.  She  walked  on  with  her  head  bowed 
to  ward  off  the  big,  heavy  drops  of  rain  that  were  be- 
ginning to  fall  at  long,  sullen  intervals  with  a  loud 
splash  on  the  pavements  and  against  the  sides  of  the 
houses  she  was  passing.  If  she  might  only  ring  at  one 
of  those  bells  and  ask  shelter  for  herself  and  baby  just 
until  the  storm  had  spent  its  fury.  But  if  they  did  not 
refuse  it,  they  would  take  her  in  and  question  her. 
Questions  might  lead  to  revelations  that  would  harm 
John.  If  each  drop  of  rain  that  fell  should  turn  to  a 
heavy  hail  stone  she  would  stagger  on  and  let  it  pelt 
her  to  death  rather  than  risk  one  hair  of  that  dear 
head.  Whenever  she  felt  her  strength  of  purpose 
flagging  and  the  desire  to  beg  shelter  assailing  her 
more  fiercely,  she  conjured  up  a  vision  of  John  in  the 
penitentiary,  and  her  resolve  petrified.  On  and  on  and 
on  she  walked,  wrapping  her  thick  shawl  more  tightly 
over  her  baby's  head,  and,  as  the  blinding  lightning 
gave  him  to  her  view  every  little  while,  eagerly  assur- 
ing herself  that  he  was  warm  and  dry.  On  and  on, 
turning  corners  when  she  came  to  them,  simply  be- 
cause she  came  to  them ;  peering,  by  the  lightning's 


STORM  TOSSED.  301 

aid,  far  ahead  of  her  through  stony  vistas  of  houses, 
girded  about  with  wet  and  glistening  trees,  she  longed 
for  the  coming  of  help  in  some  shape  or  form,  if  only 
in  the  uniform  of  a  night  watchman.  Any  body,  some- 
body to  speak  a  word  of  human  comfort  to  her  and 
help  her  in  her  dreary  search  for  a  railroad  depot.  If 
she  could  stand  still  and  cry  aloud  for  help,  she  thought 
she  would 'feel  stronger,  but  the  thought  of  John's 
peril  sealed  her  lips  and  inspired  her  faltering  steps. 
She  must  get  away  from  there,  far  away  from  there,  so 
no  one  could  force  her  to  say  she  was  John  Quinby's 
wife.  The  pitiless  storm  drove  her  forward  with  unre- 
sisting speed.  Her  skirts  clung  heavy  with  rain  about 
her  tired  ankles,  making  every  step  a  weariness  and  a 
task.  Gradually  the  defined  purpose  of  reaching  a 
railroad  station  resolved  itself  into  a  longing  for  rest. 
Any  where,  on  the  wet  stone  steps  of  the  houses  she 
reeled  rather  than  walked  past,  if  only  they  gave  her 
rest.  The  street  suddenly  widened  into  a  square  set 
about  with  trees.  A  grove  of  shining  trunks  and 
dripping  branches  surrounded  her.  There  were  benches 
under  the  trees,  cold,  wet,  hard,  iron  benches,  but  free, 
free  for  her  to  rest  on,  to  sleep  on.  She  flung  herself 
upon  one  of  them  in  a  state  of  exhaustion  bordering  on 
unconsciousness.  The  storm  had  sobbed  itself  out 
and  there  were  no  electric  flashes  by  which  she  could 
examine  her  surroundings.  The  cessation  of  move- 
ment disturbed  the  sleeping  child.  He  murmured 


302  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

querulously.  He  would  awake  and  cry.  She  bared 
her  breast  to  the  damp  night  air  to  give  him  comfort. 
She  passed  her  icy  hand  over  the  little  form  in  the 
darkness  to  see  if  he  were  still  dry  and  safe.  No  harm 
had  come  to  the  boy  from  the  driving  rain  and  pitiless 
wind.  No  harm  should  come  to  John.  The  night 
must  be  almost  spent  now.  She  would  rest  there  under 
the  wet  trees  until  it  was  light  enough  for  her  to  see 
and  then  she  would  find  somebody  to  show  her  the 
way  to  a  depot.  The  fierce  storm  that  she  had  braved 
with  her  baby  clasped  to  her  bosom  had  driven  all  the 
rest  of  the  world  to  cover.  Not  a  human  footfall  had 
comforted  her  ear  with  a  sense  of  companionship  in 
misery,  not  a  moving  thing  beside  herself  and  the 
spirit  of  the  storm  had  been  abroad  that  woeful  night. 
She  shivered  and  drew  the  shawl  closer  yet  about  her 
bared  bosom.  Oh,  for  daylight,  that  she  could  find 
food  and  warmth  for  herself,  shelter  for  her  child.  Her 
head  fell  over  to  one  side,  the  cold,  iron  back  of  the 
bench  held  it  and  sustained.  The  cold,  hard  contact 
made  her  moan  with  pain.  Her  lids  dropped  heavily. 
Barbara,  as  undisciplined  as  the  winds  that  had  buf- 
feted her  weary  feet  and  smitten  her  cold  wet  cheeks, 
as  passionate  as  the  storm  that  had  spent  its  fury  on 
her  unsheltered  head,  loyal  in  her  devotion,  grand  in 
her  self-abnegation,  slept ! 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

IN  THE  TOILS. 

SHE  was  aroused  by  the  flashing  of  a  policeman's 
"  bull's  eye  "  full  in  her  face.  She  opened  her 
eyes  with  a  start  and  sat  bolt  upright,  then  uttered  a 
sharp  cry  of  pain  and  placed  her  hand  on  her  side. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?  "  asked  the  watchman, 
laying  his  hand  ungently  on  her  shoulder.  His  face 
was  harsh  and  his  voice  threatening. 

"  Looking  for  a  railroad  depot,"  Barbara  answered, 
gasping  with  the  pain  each  word  produced.  "  I'll  pay 
you  well  to  take  me  and  my  baby  to  the  station." 

"  What  station  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  which  one.  Only  be  quick  about 
it.  I  don't  care  where  I  go." 

A  brutal  laugh  was  his  only  answer.  He  lifted  the 
corner  of  the  shawl  to  look  at  the  baby,  then  asked : 
"  What's  your  name  ?  " 

"  What's  that  to  you  ?  I  tell  you  man,  I'll  pay  you, 
pay  you  well  if  you  will  take  me  to  the  nearest 
station." 

"  Come  now,  that's  liberal !     But  let  me  show  you 


304  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

how  much  more  liberal  I  can  be.  I'll  take  you  to  the 
nearest  station  without  any  pay  at  all.  Come,  get  up! 
Move  on  !  Tain't  far  from  here  anyways." 

She  tried  to  get  up,  but  staggered  back  to  her  seat. 
She  was  stiff  from  the  exposure  to  the  storm,  and  the 
pains  that  began  in  her  side  were  shooting  through 
every  part  of  her  body.  She  moaned  aloud. 

"  Come,  none  o'  your  gammon  with  me.  Give  me 
the  kid,  and  then  step  out  lively." 

"  Couldn't  you  get  a  cab  for  me  ?  "  she  asked  pite- 
ously.  "  I  assure  you  I  am  quite  able  to  pay  for  a  ride 
to  the  station." 

"  That  would  be  sorter  stylish  now,"  said  the  man, 
preparing  to  take  the  child  forcibly  from  her  clasp ; 
"but  we  don't  lay  much  store  on  style  at  my  sorter 
station.  It's  a  likely  story  for  the  horse-marines,  that 
a  lady  which  can  afford  to  ride  about  town  in  cabs, 
would  spend  the  night  on  this  'ere  iron  bench  in  Wash- 
ington Square ! "  He  had  the  child  in  his  arms  by 
this  time,  and  lifting  Barbara  to  her  feet  with  one 
strong  hand,  he  retained  his  hold  upon  her  arm,  as  he 
propelled  her  along  the  streets  that  were  gleaming, 
cold  and  wet,  under  the  first  rays  of  daylight. 

"Ami  under  arrest?"  She  recoiled  from  him  as 
the  words  came  with  almost  a  shriek  from  her  lips. 

"  That's  what  we  call  it  in  this  part  of  the  country." 

"But  I've  done  nothing!  I'm  a  perfectly  innocent 
woman  !  " 


IN  THE  TOILS.  305 

"  Then  you  ain't  got  nothing  to  be  skeered  about. 
We're  altogether  too  hospitable,  though,  in  this  part  of 
the  country,  to  let  a  lady  set  out  a  wet  night  under 
the  trees,  when  we've  got  good  dry  quarters  for  her  ac- 
commodation clos't  to  hand." 

"  But  I  will- pay  you  any  thing  you  ask,  any  thing  you 
want,  if  you  will  just  go  away  and  let  me  find  my  own 
way  to  the  station." 

She  fumbled  frantically  in  her  bosom  for  the  roll  of 
bills.  The  officer's  voice  was  doubly  stern  as  he  saw 
this  action. 

"  Come,  have  done  !  As  it  is,  you'll  be  committed  for 
vagrancy  only.  How  you  come  by  the  money  you're 
making  such  brags  of  I'll  find  out  later  on.  Only, 
don't  you  be  trying  to  bribe  honester  folks  than  your- 
self with  it." 

His  words  sealed  her  lips.  Dumbly  she  followed 
him  a  few  blocks,  racked  with  physical  pain,  filled  with 
horror  at  her  situation,  dazed  with  fright. 

When  they  reached  the  police  station  she  was 
handed  over  with  very  little  ceremony  by  the  watch- 
man, who  had  found  her  asleep  in  the  Square,  to  the 
station  officer.  "Your  name?"  that  officer  asked, 
with  that  coldly  investigating  stare  he  bestowed  upon 
all  such  offenders  against  the  proprieties.  Barbara 
answered  his  stare  with  a  look  of  sullen  stubbornness, 
and  silently  reached  out  her  arms  to  take  her  boy  from 
the  policeman's  hands. 


306  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"Your  name,  I  asked?"  The  thundering  tones 
frightened  her  from  her  resolve  to  be  dumb.  There 
was  no  limit  to  the  power  of  the  law,  she  warned  her- 
self tremulously.  She  raised  her  eyes  defiantly  to  the 
officer's  face,  saying  slowly  and  distinctly  : 

"  Barbara  Hickman." 

And  in  the  records  of  the  police  station  books,  for 
that  night,  this  entry  was  made: 

"Barbara  Hickman  ;  blue  eyes,  blonde  hair,  dressed 
in  black  cashmere,  child  one  month  old  in  arms.  Ar- 
rested half  past  three  A.  M.  in  Washington  Square  by 
Patrolman  Larkins.  Committed  for  vagrancy." 

The  next  morning  when  the  turnkey  had  made  his 
rounds  with  the  prisoners'  breakfasts,  he  reported  to 
the  officer  of  the  day,  that  "  No.  10  seemed  to  be  in  a 
bad  way.  If  she  wasn't  wrestling  with  a  tough  case 
of  pneumonia  he'd  eat  his  hat." 

Examination  by  the  jail  doctor  proved  the  man  to 
be  correct.  Barbara's  exposure  to  the  storm  of  the 
night  before,  when  she  was  already  in  a  reduced  state, 
had  brought  on  that  dreadful  disease.  Inured  as  he 
was  to  every  phase  of  human  woe  and  human  frailty, 
the  jail  doctor  found  his  sympathies  stirred  to  an  un- 
usual degree  as  he  watched  this  new  patient,  waiting 
for  her  to  show  some  recognition  of  his  presence.  He 
had  found  her  tossing  with  high  fever,  and  moaning 
with  pain  when  he  entered  her  cell.  Her  cheeks  were 
ablaze  with  the  heat  that  was  consuming  her.  Her 


IN  THE  TOILS.  307 

lovely  hair  had  escaped  all  bounds,  and  enveloped  her 
like  a  silken  scarf  of  pale  gold.  Her  parted,  panting 
lips  were  crimsoned  with  the  fever.  Her  eyes  were 
closed,  and  her  long  lashes  were  wet  with  tears,  that 
she  had  no  strength  or  will  to  brush  away.  Her  baby 
was  clasped  close  to  her  white,  bare  bosom.  She  was 
sleeping  unrestfully  from  sheer  exhaustion.  He  knew 
this  sleep  would  not  last  long.  He  would  question 
her  when  she  awoke  as  to  her  friends.  This  was  no 
place  for  a  woman  who  was  probably  "  in  "  for  a  pro- 
tracted siege.  When  Barbara  opened  her  eyes  and 
saw  him,  she  gave  a  low  cry  of  alarm.  It  was  another 
one  of  those  stony-hearted  officials  come  to  torment 
her. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  the  doctor  in  his  kindest 
manner.  "  I  am  the  attending  physician  here.  I  am 
afraid  you  have  caught  a  bad  cold,  and  maybe  will  be 
sick  quite  a  little  while.  If  you  will  give  me  the  names 
of  your  friends,  I  will  see  that  you  are  conveyed  there 
quite  privately.  No  questions  asked,  you  know,"  he 
said  reassuringly. 

"  I  have  no  friends,"  there  was  more  of  stubborn 
resolution  than  of  desolation  in  this  forlorn  answer. 

"  Acquaintances  then,  or  home  ?  Where  would  you 
prefer  to  be  taken  to  ?  Come  now,  say  that  we  are  in 
for  a  spell  of  sickness,  where  would  you  be  most  com- 
fortable ?  " 

"  Right  here  !  " 


308  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  That's  most  extraordinary.  You  certainly  must 
have  some  relative." 

"Not  one  this  side  of  England." 

"  Dear  me  !  dear  me !  "  said  the  doctor,  aghast  at  the 
unavailability  of  such  very  far  away  kin.  "  Well,  then, 
now,  the  little  boy's  father  ?  Surely  your — a — husband 
would  not  be  willing  to  let  you  be  sick  in  a  police 
station  if  he  knew?  " 

Barbara  eyed  him  suspiciously.  All  this  pretended 
interest  in  her  was  just  to  find  out  where  John  was. 
They  were  all  hounding  after  John.  If  she  died  in 
that  prison  cell  they  should  not  wrench  one  word  from 
her  that  would  help  them  run  him  to  earth.  She 
shook  her  head  resolutely. 

"  I  assure  you,  my  poor  woman,  I  have  no  desire 
whatever  to  pry  into  your  private  affairs.  I  believe 
that  you  are  going  to  be  ill.  It  would  be  best  for  you 
to  name  some  place  or  friend  to  whom  I  could  take  a 
message  for  you.  You  might  die  here,  and  your 
dearest  friend  know  nothing  about  it.  Off  the  station 
books  you  are  nothing  but  No.  10 — even  I  do  not 
know  your  name." 

A  strange  light,  as  of  increasing  satisfaction,  came 
into  Barbara's  face.  If  what  he  was  saying  was  true, 
she  was  as  much  out  of  John's  way,  there  in  her  prison 
cell,  as  if  she  had  gotten  away  that  night.  And  then, 
if  things  straightened  themselves  out  again,  she  didn't 
exactly  know  how,  but  they  might,  it  wouldn't  take 


IN  THE  TOILS.  309 

her  so  long  to  get  back  to  John's  arms.  She  was  glad 
she  had  not  gotten  further  away. 

"  Doctor,"  she  said  suddenly,  feeling  under  her  pillow 
as  she  spoke,  "  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  any  thing 
about  myself,  except  this  much  :  I  was  aiming  to  get 
out  of  Salt  Lake  City,  last  night,  and  brought  up  here 
accidently.  If  it's  a  good  hiding  place,  it  will  suit  me 
better  than  the  finest  room  at  the  finest  hotel  in  the 
town.  I'm  not  a  pauper.  If  you'll  take  this  money 
and  look  after  me  and  the  child  until  I'm  able  to  get 
on  my  way,  you'll  be  doing  something  God  won't 
blame  you  for.  You  say  I  am  going  to  be  sick.  I 
feel  like  I  was  being  torn  limb  from  limb  now,  when- 
ever I  draw  a  long  breath.  If  I  get  delirious,  don't 
mind  any  stuff  I  talk.  I  ain't  got  any  kin  in  this 
country.  My  name's  Hickman.  My  baby's  name  is 
John  Hickman — we  don't  know  any  body  of  any  other 
name.  I  was  a  nurse  in  a  lady's  family — I  came  here 
as  a  nurse,  and  I'm  tired  of  the  place,  and  I  want  to 
get  back  to  the  States  where  my  baby's  father  is,  that's 
all — that's  all ;  and  any  thing  more  and  above  it  that 
any  body  says,  if  it's  me,  myself,  is  lies — lies,  do  you 
hear,  doctor,  and  nothing  more  !  Take  care  of  us  with 
this." 

She  grasped  his  hand  imploringly,  and  thrust  the 
roll  of  bills  into  it.  She  had  used  up  what  little 
mental  and  physical  strength  was  left  her  in  fabricat- 
ing a  lie  to  protect  John  ;  she  fell  back  upon  her  pillows 


310  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

laughing  hysterically,  as  she  babbled  in  a  delirious  and 
disconnected  fashion,  of  persons  and  places  in  far  away 
England. 

It  would  seem  as  if  her  will  power  to  protect  John 
held  good  even  during  the  wildest  of  her  delirium,  for 
never  the  faintest  allusion  to  him  escaped  her  parched 
and  fevered  lips. 

Long,  fiercely  and  successfully  she  wrestled  with 
the  malignant  disease  that  had  seized  upon  her  with 
what  at  one  time  seemed  a  fatal  grip.  Her  magnifi- 
cent constitution  helped  her  fight  back  death.  When 
the  fever  abated  and  the  fogs  of  delirium  cleared  from 
her  brain,  she  looked  around  her  apartment  in  lan- 
guid amazement.  She  was  still  an  inmate  of  the 
county  jail,  but  her  apartment  had  been  converted  into 
a  luxurious  bed-chamber  as  far  as  a  prison  cell  was 
susceptible  of  such  conversion.  Soft,  crimson  woolen 
hangings  hid  the  sinister  iron  bars  of  the  window — gay 
rugs  covered  the  hard,  bare  floor — flowers  occupied 
every  available  coign  of  vantage — a  basket  of  mixed 
fruits  occupied  a  little  center  table  that  had  also  been 
added  mysteriously  to  her  belongings.  The  coarse 
prison  fare  that  had  been  brought  her  on  her  first 
morning  had  given  place  to  delicate  nourishment 
suited  to  an  invalid's  capricious  appetite.  Books  and 
pictures  began  to  come  in  so  soon  as  it  was  observed 
by  the  doctor  that  she  needed  some  sort  of  entertain- 
ment, 


IN  THE  TOILS.  311 

"Doctor,"  said  Barbara,  motioning  the  nurse  to  leave 
them  alone,  "  when  I  asked  you  to  take  care  of  me  and 
my  child,  I  didn't  expect  you  to  be  so  free  handed 
with  the  money."  She  glanced  disapprovingly  at  her 
improved  surroundings.  "  I  could  have  weathered  it 
out  in  No.  10  just  as  it  was,  so  you'd  paid  for  a  nurse 
for  my  child,  but  when  it  comes  to  gim-cracks 

"You  are  making  a  mistake,"  said  the  doctor;  "  not 
an  unnatural  one,  probably.  Your  friends,  it  seems, 
have  found  you  out,  and  testified  to  their  interest  in 
your  case,  as  you  see." 

Barbara's  eyes  dilated  with  terror.  Was  John  ex- 
pressing himself  in  this  rash  way  to  make  her  more 
comfortable  ? 

"  I  told  you  I  had  no  friends,"  she  said,  with  savage 
impatience,  "and  you've  been  letting  some  impertinent 
stranger  meddle  in  my  affairs,  when  I  was  too  sick  to 
protect  myself." 

"  Tut,  tut !  don't  go  to  working  yourself  into  another 
fever.  You  have  a  friend  if  not  more,  and  I've  prom- 
ised her  she  may  sit  with  you  for  half  an  hour  this 
morning,  if  she  does  all  the  talking." 

"  Her  !  " 

"Yes,  her.  A  very  nice  old  white  haired  lady, 
who  has  taken  a  good  deal  of  interest  in  your  case. 
She  was  to  be  here  by  ten  this  morning.  It  is  three 
minutes  of  that  now,  and— ah !  punctuality  itself, 
madam." 


312  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

This  last  to  Mrs.  Shaw,  who  bustled  into  the  room 
at  this  juncture,  laden  with  fresh  flowers  and  more 
fruit.  "  Here  is  your  friend  of  the  flower  mission,"  he 
said  to  Barbara  ;  "now  then,  I  will  leave  my  patient  in 
your  hands,  madam.  The  condition  of  your  being 
permitted  to  stay  a  second  time  as  long  as  you  please, 
is,  that  you  do  all  the  talking.  The  patient  is  naturally 
excitable,  I  take  it —  He  paused,  hoping  Mrs. 
Shaw  would  volunteer  some  information.  She  merely 
nodded  in  the  affirmative,  so  he  concluded  his  sentence 
rather  tamely:  " — and  must  not  be  excited." 

"  And  so  it's  you,"  said  Barbara,  as  soon  as  the  doc- 
tor was  out  of  hearing,  "  that's  been  taking  such  kind 
care  of  me.  But  I'd  rather  you  hadn't." 

"  In  the  first  place,"  says  Mrs.  Shaw,  briskly,  "  it's 
not  me.  It's  all  the  faithful  who  glory  in  the  stand 
you  are  making  for  the  faith.  They've  been  sending 
you  these  things  by  me." 

"  But  I'm  not  making  any  stand  for  the  faith,"  says 
Barbara,  with  creditable  honesty.  "  The  woman  where 
I  boarded  told  me  that  they  were  watching  the  house 
to  arrest  my  husband  for  bigamy,  and  I  ran  away  so 
they  shouldn't  be  able  to  prove  any  thing  on  him." 

"Yes,  yes,  yes!  It  was  easy  enough  for  us  to 
understand  why  you  got  out  of  the  way.  These 
wretches  would  like  the  best  in  the  world  to  strike  a 
fatal  blow  at  John  Quinby.  They  want  a  shining 
mark.  But  if  you'll  only  stand  firm,  they'll  not  make 


IN  THE  TOILS.  313 

as  big  a  haul  as  they  expect,"  says  Mrs.  Shaw,  pro- 
ceeding to  feed  the  sick  woman  on  some  jelly  she  has 
brought  with  her. 

"  Stand  firm  !  Why,  what  more  is  there  for  me  to 
do?  What  connection  can  they  make  out  between 
John  Quinby  and  the  vagrant  Barbara  Hickman?  " 

Mrs.  Shaw  got  up  and  looked  cautiously  out  into 
the  corridor.  No  one  was  within  hearing.  She  came 
back  to  the  bedside  and  said  impressively:  "  Effie's 
old  lover,  Cosgrove,  is  giving  them  all  the  points  they 
want.  But  spying  is  a  double  game.  We  are  pretty 
well  up  in  points  ourselves.  One  week  from  this  is 
the  day  they've  set  for  examining  you.  I  wanted  to 
let  you  know  long  enough  beforehand  for  you  to  be 
prepared." 

"Who  is  'they'?  And  what  do  they  want  to 
examine  me  about?  " 

"  They  are  the  commissioners  who  have  been  sent 
over  here  with  powers  to  work  up  cases  against  our 
people  by  any  means  in  their  power,  and  they  don't 
care  how  they  get  evidence  just  so  they  get  it.  Their 
intention  is  to  force  you  to  tell  who  the  father  of  your 
child  is.  They  fancy  that  rather  than  be  kept  in  jail 
you'll  make  a  clean  breast  of  it." 

"  Then  they  don't  know  me,  that's  all,"  Barbara  inter- 
rupts fiercely,  "and  neither  do  you,  if  you  thought  it 
was  necessary  to  ask  me  to  stand  firm.  If  they  was  to 
chop  me  limb  from  limb  I  wouldn't  tell  'em  any  thing." 


314  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  Well  said ! "  says  Mrs.  Shaw,  enthusiastically. 
"  You  are  of  the  stuff  God's  chosen  people  are  made 
of.  The  enemies  of  the  Saints  can  not  prevail  against 
such  a  spirit.  The  saints  are  praying  for  you  day  and 
night." 

"Rut  I  want  to  know  only  one  thing.  John — 
where  is  he  ?  Has  he  been  heard  from  ?  " 

Mrs.  Shaw  smiled  mysteriously:  "The  children  of 
this  world  think  they  have  all  the  wisdom.  We  Saints 
think  we  have  a  small  share  ourselves.  Our  spies  are 
everywhere.  Anthony  Quinby  has  done  the  Church 
he  despises  one  good  turn  without  meaning  it.  He 
does  not  know  that  every  telegraph  line  in  Salt  Lake 
City  is  under  the  control  of  our  Taylor.  He  tele- 
graphed to  Quinby's  heads  to  keep  his  brother  in  New 
York  City  at  all  hazards,  until  they  heard  from  him 
again.  He  meant  only  to  protect  his  own  name  from 
the  disgrace  of  having  one  who  bore  it  arrested  for 
bigamy,  but  we  thank  him  all  the  same.  If  John  was 
here  he's  just  hot-headed  enough  to  stand  up  and  pro- 
claim his  rights  in  you  and  the  boy.  Nothing  could 
keep  him  from  it.  •  He's  better  out  of  the  way.  The 
Lord  is  permitting  his  Saints  to  be  sorely  tried  just 
now.  But  praised  be  His  name,  we  will  come  out 
triumphant !  " 

Barbara  clasped  her  hands  fervently  together. 

"Thank  God!"  she  said,  "for  Anthony  Quinby's 
wise  act.  Now  let  them  do  their  worst."  She  lay 


IN  THE  TOILS.  3,5 

back  upon  her  pillows  with  a  peaceful  smile  on  her 
lips. 

"  My  half  hour  is  up,"  said  Mrs.  Shaw,  placing  an 
orange  she  had  just  skillfully  peeled  within  Barbara's 
reach.  "  I'm  not  coming  here  again  until  I'm  ready  to 
take  you  away." 

"  Take  me  away !  But  I  don't  want  to  be  taken 
away  !  As  long  as  they  keep  me  here  where  John 
can't  find  me,  he's  in  no  danger.  Besides,  you  talk  as 
if  you  could." 

"  I  can  ;  only  if  those  commissioners  give  over  both- 
ering you  they'll  turn  you  out  of  their  own  accord. 
It's  the  Grand  Jury  that's  having  you  held  now.  And, 
whatever  comes,  bear  this  in  mind:  I'm  working  for 
you  and  the  Saints  are  praying  for  you.  You  are  the 
greatest  woman  in  Salt  Lake  City  this  day."  Mrs. 
Shaw  kissed  the  woman  who  had  had  heroism  thus 
thrust  upon  her,  and  went  away  after  a  few  more 
impressively  delivered  injunctions. 

As  soon  as  Barbara  was  pronounced  strong  enough 
to  leave  her  room  and  well,  beyond  any  fear  of  relapse, 
she  was  conducted  to  the  Grand  Jury  room,  where  she 
was  severely  and  judicially  catechised  as  to  her  ante- 
cedents, her  marriage  and  the  paternity  of  her  child. 

To  the  string  of  carefully-worded  questions  that  were 
meant  to  beguile  some  damaging  admissions  from  her, 
she  returned  a  defiant  stare  and  mute  resistance. 

44  Do   you    know  that   you    arc   rendering  yourself 


316  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

liable  for  contempt  of  court?"  asked  one  of  her 
examiners  severely,  when  all  hope  of  opening  her  lips 
failed. 

"  What's  done  to  people  when  they  show  the  con- 
tempt they  feel?  "  she  asked  with  an  ugly  sneer. 

"  They  are  imprisoned." 

"Until  when?" 

"  Until  such  time  as  the  offender  shall  come  to  his 
or  her  senses  and  answer  the  questions  put  by  the 
Court." 

"  Then,"  said  Barbara,  with  a  flashing  smile  that 
showed  all  her  strong  white  teeth,  "  you  may  as  well 
commit  me  for  life  and  be  done  with  it.  For  we'll  all 
die  natural  deaths  right  here  in  this  room  before  I 
answer  you  a  single  question." 

Such  displays  of  defiance  'were  not  very  impressive, 
taking  into  consideration  the  sex  of  the  offender,  so  it 
was  with  full  expectation  of  bringing  her  to  speedy 
terms  that  Barbara  was  remanded  to  her  cell  by  the 
United  States  District  Attorney,  and  an  early  date  fixed 
for  her  second  examination.  But  when  a  second  and  a 
third,  a  fourth  and  a  fifth  time  the  farce  of  questioning 
on  the  one  part  and  defiant  dumbness  on  the  other 
left  the  matter  where  it  had  been  in  the  beginning, 
the  attorney  began  to  think  then  that  it  was  more 
than  mortal  obstinacy  against  which  he  was  waging 
such  futile  warfare.  The  day  fixed  for  Barbara's  sixth 
appearance  before  the  Board  of  Examiners  dawned  to 


IN  THE  TOILS.  j!7 

find  her  once  more  prostrate  with  fever.  The  strain 
on  her  nerves  had  been  too  great. 

With  sullen  acquiescence  in  the  doctor's  commands 
that  she  must  not  be  disturbed,  the  men  who  were 
zealously  anxious  to  bring  to  justice  so  prominent  an 
offender  as  John  Quinby,  turned  their  attention  to 
other  parties  for  the  time  being,  holding  the  case  of 
Barbara  Hickman  in  abeyance. 

It  had  been  through  the  services  of  Ferdinand  Cos- 
grove  that  the  identity  of  Barbara  Hickman,  arrested 
for  vagrancy,  and  the  third  wife  of  the  rich  John 
Quinby,  had  been  established. 

Waking  up  from  a  long  sleep  that  partook  largely  of 
exhaustion,  Barbara  found  Mrs.  Shaw  sitting  quietly  by 
her  side  with  the  baby  in  her  lap.  Her  troubles  had 
worn  out  what  little  of  unselfish  mother  love  had  ever 
found  lodgment  in  her  undisciplined  soul.  She  looked 
at  the  child  almost  savagely. 

"  I  could  'a'  done  it  but  for  him,"  she  said.  "  I  could 
'a'  got  away.  He  broke  me  down.  I  slept  when  I  ought 
to  have  been  walking.  If  I  don't  get  away  they'll  do 
something  to  John  any  way,  they're  just  that  bent  on 
it." 

"Yes,"  says  Mrs.  Shaw  musingly,  "that  is  your 
husband's  only  chance.  Once  you're  out  of  the  city 
they've  got  no  case.  He's  coming  back  in  two 
days." 

"  But    if  I   couldn't    do  it   when  I    was   well    and 


318  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

strong  and  free,  how  can  I  do  it  now  ?  "  Barbara  asked, 
wringing  her  hands  in  impatient  misery. 

"  I  am  going  to  accomplish  it  for  you,"  says  the 
bishop's  wife  with  that  placid  air  of  confidence  in  her- 
self that  always  inspired  it  in  others.  "  That's  what 
I'm  here  for  to-day.  That's  what  I've  staid  away  on 
purpose  for  until  to  day.  I  didn't  care  to  seem  too 
much  interested  in  you.  The  rest  of  them  could  bring 
you  flowers  and  jellies  and  pictures.  I've  been  saving 
myself  to  save  your  husband — yes,  and  to  save  the 
Church,  too,  the  loss  his  conviction  would  bring  on 
it.  We  need  more  such :  we  can  not  afford  to  lose 
John  Ouinby." 

Barbara  raised  the  hand  that  lay  in  hers  to  her  lips 
and  kissed  it  fervently :  "  Save  him  !  Save  John  !  I 
don't  care  what  becomes  of  me." 

"  I  knew  I  had  a  sensible  woman  to  deal  with.  How 
long  do  you  suppose  it  will  be  before  you  can  walk  ?  " 

"How  far?"  Barbara  asked,  conscious  of  total  lack 
of  strength. 

Mrs.  Shaw  laughed  softly  to  herself,  much  as  if  she 
were  enjoying  a  joke  too  good  to  be  shared  with  any 
body. 

"  Oh!  not  very  far.  Say  from  your  bed  here,  to  a  car- 
riage down  about  Washington  Square." 

"Soon!  Just  as  soon  as  you  please.  If  it's  for 
John's  security,  I  could  do  it  this  moment." 

"  Not  so  fast !     Not   so  fast  !     There   must   be  no 


IN  THE  TOILS.  3!9 

failure  this  time."  Suddenly  leaving  her  chair  by  the 
bedside,  Mrs.  Shaw  .went  into  the  outer  corridor,  and 
beckoning  to  her  the  nurse  who  took  advantage  of  the 
visitor's  presence  in  the  sick  room  to  get  a  little  change 
of  scene  herself,  requested  her  to  summon  the  jail  phy- 
sician. 

When  that  functionary  stood  in  her  presence,  Mrs. 
Shaw  said,  in  a  gently  judicial  manner: 

"-Doctor,  I  suppose  the  officials  have  no  moral  nor 
political  ends  to  achieve  by  detaining  this  poor  little 
baby  within  prison  boundaries,  have  they?" 

"  I  answer  no  questions  aimed  at  the  prison  officials, 
madam.  In  my  own  capacity  as  physician,  I  would 
have  sent  the  child  away  long  ago,  both  for  its  own 
sake  and  the  mother's,  but  she  has  resisted  every  effort 
to  that  end  fiercely." 

"Yes,"  says  Barbara,  with  blazing  eyes,  "you 
would  have  sent  it  to  some  institution  for  pauper 
orphans,  I  suppose." 

"Hush!  child,  hush!"  says  Mrs.  Shaw,  soothingly. 
"  Then  I  shall  take  the  little  thing  home  with  me.  It  is 
pining  away  in  this  atmosphere.  I  only  wanted  to  be 
authorized  by  you,  doctor,"  says  the  bishop's  wife, 
with  a  fine  show  of  moral  obligation  to  obey  the  powers 
that  be  which  was  calculated  to  impose  on  any  one. 

The  physician  bowed  stiffly,  examined  Barbara's 
tongue  and  pulse,  and  went  his  way.  Mrs.  Shaw  busied 
herself  getting  the  baby  ready  for  removal. 


326  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  I  shall  be  here  day  after  to-morrow,"  she  said, 
almost  whispering  the  words  to  Barbara,  as  she  bent 
over  her,  smoothing  the  tangled  waves  of  her  hair.  "  I 
shall  come  about  dark.  Bishop  Shaw  will  be  with  me. 
You  must  be  very  strong  that  night,  for  John's  sake. 
The  baby  would  spoil  all." 

A  look  of  passionate  determination  illumined  Bar- 
bara's eyes.  And  the  smile  which  was  her  only  answer 
spoke  volumes. 

Mrs.  Shaw  carried  out  her  programme  to  the  letter. 
At  dusk  of  the  day  appointed  she  and  Bishop  Shaw 
craved  and  obtained  permission  to  visit  Barbara  Hick- 
man  in  her  cell.  They  staid  perhaps  an  hour,  and  then 
walked  out  as  they  had  come  in,  arm  and  arm,  a  quiet, 
slow-walking,  elderly  couple.  The  nurse  had  been  dis- 
missed some  days  before.  The  inmate  of  the  sick 
ward  remained  undisturbed  until  breakfast  time  the 
next  morning. 

When  the  turnkey  reached  that  room  with  the  pris- 
oner's morning  cup  of  muddy  coffee,  Mrs.  Shaw's 
mild  blue  eyes  and  fluffy  white  curls  and  serene  face 
confronted  him  in  place  of  Barbara  Hickman's  more 
youthful  beauty  and  turbulent  glances. 

She  smiled  placidly  at  his  consternation  and 
requested  him  to  summon  the  station  officials.  When 
they  came  she  said  to  them  with  unruffled  eyes  and 
voice : 

"  You  have  cruelly  imprisoned  an  innocent  woman,  and 


IN  THE  TOILS.  321 

have  been  holding  her  to  persecute  her  yet  further  for  no 
other  reason  than  that  she  advocates  and  practices 
a  religious  system  that  you  disapprove  of.  I  have 
assisted  her  to  escape.  The  Lord  never  forsakes  him 
who  puts  his  trust  in  Him — as  the  angel  delivered 
Peter  from  the  hands  of  his  persecuters,  even  as  he  lay 
fast  bound  between  two  armed  soldiers,  so  have  I,  the 
humble  handmaiden  of  that  same  all  powerful  One, 
been  chosen  to  free  His  chosen  servant  from  your 
hands.  You  can  mete  unto  me  whatsoever  punish- 
ment you  see  fit.  I  rejoice  to  know  that  Barbara 
Hickman  is  beyond  the  reach  of  your  malice.  At 
eleven  o'clock  last  night  she  left  Salt  Lake  City  with 
her  child  bound  for—  With  a  rippling  little  laugh 

of  the  most  exasperating  merriment,  Mrs.  Shaw  closed 
her  incomplete  confession.  Folding  her  hands  in  affec- 
tation of  patient  submission  she  regarded  the  out- 
witted officials  with  her  most  benignant  smile. 

"Well,  gentlemen?"  This  questioningly,  as  the  men 
stood  dumb  before  her. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  your  own  way  home  ?  "  one  of 
them  said,  with  a  sense  of  the  ludicrous  fast  getting 
the  better  of  his  wrath. 

"  Yes,  quite  well,  thank  you." 

"  And  I  suppose  you  know  this  isn't  a  case  for 
vicarious  atonement  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  that,  too." 

"  Then  I  guess  we  may  as  well  sing  a  doxology.    It's 


322  THE  BAR-SlNtSTER. 

plain  to  be  seen  whose  friend  you  are ;  and  that  ain't 
the  United  States  government.  You've  used  your  gray 
hairs  and  smooth  tongue  to  help  a  rogue  defeat  justice. 
I  hope  you'll  enjoy  your  reward  among  the  Saints." 

Says  the  bishop's  wife,  raising  her  soft  eyes  heaven- 
ward : 

"Young  men,  I  look  higher  for  my  reward  !  " 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE   END   OF  A   STRUGGLE. 

WHEN  Bishop  Shaw  had  accompanied  Barbara  as 
far  as  Logan,  one  of  the  outlying  strongholds  of 
Mormonism  in  the  Territory  of  Utah,  and  had  established 
her  and  her  child  in  comfortable  quarters,  and  supplied 
her  with  money  for  her  immediate  wants,  and  return- 
ing to  Salt  Lake  City,  had  himself  gone  to  Mrs.  West, 
love  and  put  a  note  into  her  hands  for  instant  delivery 
to  Mr.  Quinby  on  his  return,  he  considered  that  he  had 
performed  his  entire  duty  to  his  neighbor  and  to  the 
imperiled  institution  so  dear  to  his  own  heart,  and 
subsided  into  a  species  of  monogamic  domesticity  in 
the  home  of  his  wife  Laetitia,  which  he  found  more 
than  usually  congenial  after  the  exertion  and  excite- 
ment attendant  upon  Barbara's  affair,  and  altogether 
expedient  for  the  time  being. 

In  consoling  classes  two,  three,  four,  and  five  for 
their  enforced  isolation  from  his  benignant  presence 
temporarily,  the  patriarch  said  : 

"This  flare-up  on  the  part  of  the  authorities  will 
expire  soon  for  want  of  fuel.  Convictions  with  neither 
proof  nor  witnesses  will  be  hard  to  make.  Bear  in 


324  THE  BAk-SINISTER. 

mind  that  you  are  being  persecuted  for  your  faith's 
sake.  Stand  firm  as  Barbara  Hickman  stood,  pre- 
ferring imprisonment  and  exile  before  yielding  one  jot 
or  one  tittle,  and  we  will  prevail.  The  constitution 
protects  the  sacredness  of  contracts  ;  plural  marriage 
is  a  contract  of  the  most  sacred  character,  being  for 
time  and  eternity.  Fear  not  what  evil  men  may  say 
of  you.  Abide  in  the  faith  and  all  will  yet  be  well 
with  you." 

And,  as  terror  of  the  law  as  expounded  to  them  by 
the  priests  of  the  new  gospel,  was  a  much-  more  real 
and  powerful  element  in  their  lives  than  terror  of  the 
law  as  set  forth  by  the  malicious  intermeddlers  who 
had  come  from  the  States  to  persecute  the  Latter  Day 
Saints,  Bishop  Shaw's  wives  held  themselves  in  readi- 
ness to  endure  buffetings,  and  scorn,  and  persecutions  ; 
yea,  even  stripes,  if  need  be,  for  the  glory  of  the  faith 
or  curdling  fear  of  the  horrors  of  blood  atonement ! 

Mrs.  Westlove  being  one  of  those  complaisant  mor- 
tals who  never  permit  principle  to  militate  against 
profit,  had  cordially  consented  to  charge  herself  with 
the  secret  delivery  of  a  letter  to  Mr.  Quinby,  the  more 
readily  when  informed  that  it  was  to  explain  his  wife's 
sudden  departure.  She  was  thankful  enough  to  be 
absolved  from  all  necessity  for  making  explanations 
that  might  not  explain  her  own  share  in  Barbara's 
flight.  If  things  should  settle  down  and  leave  the 
"  Saints  on  top,"  it  would  be  a  pity  not  to  be  found  on 


THE  END  OF  A  STRUGGLE.  325 

the  good  side  of  such  people  as  the  Shavvs  and  the 
Quinbys. 

This  is  the  note  that  sent  John  Quinby,  all  tired  and 
travel  stained  as  he  was,  straight  from  Mrs.  Westlove's 
to  Bishop  Shaw's  house  immediately  on  his  return  to 
the  city,  before  even  he  had  ventured  into  the  frigid 
atmosphere  of  Anna's  home.  The  ardent  embraces  of 
his  impassioned  Barbara  had  promised  much  in  the 
way  of  welcome  to  a  returned  traveler,  and  he  had 
made  no  halt  on  his  arrival.  The  note  was  from  Bishop 
Shaw's  own  august  hand  : 

"You  are  to  feel  no  uneasiness  at  not  finding  your 
wife  where  you  left  her,  but  are  to  come  to  me  imme- 
diately on  your  arrival,  no  matter  what  the  hour,  for  a 
full  explanation.  You  will  find  me  at  Mrs.  Laetitia's. 
Your  true  friend  and  brother  in  the  Church." 

It  was  midnight  by  the  time  Mrs.  Shaw  and  the 
bishop  had  put  him  in  possession  of  all  that  had  hap- 
pened during  his  absence,  and  explained  to  him  the 
situation  as  it  then  was.  Told  in  Mrs.  Shaw's  soft, 
purring  fashion,  whose  desire  was  to  rob  it  of  every 
detail  calculated  to  disgust,  he  saw  in  Barbara  the  sen- 
sation of  the  hour — the  heroine  of  the  day !  Had  his 
adoption  of  the  new  gospel  tenets  been  tinctured  with 
more  of  spirituality  and  less  of  sensualism,  this  glorifi- 
cation of  his  wife  might  have  added  to  her  value  in  his 
eyes.  As  it  was,  he  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  a 
severe  nervous  shock  that  he  was  in  nowise  relieved  from 


326  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

when  Bishop  Shaw,  taking  from  his  side  pocket  a  letter, 
extended  it  to  him,  saying :  "  The  brave  girl  said, 
just  as  I  was  about  telling  her  good-by,  that  '  she  was 
afraid  I  wouldn't  put  it  strong  enough  that  she  didn't 
want  you  to  follow  her  so  long  as  these  fellows  were 
here,'  so  she  had  written  you  herself." 

A  flood  of  burning  mortification  swept  over  John 
Quinby's  clouded  face  as  his  eyes  rested  on  the  almost 
illegible  scrawl  in  his  hand.  Barbara  had  never  before 
had  occasion  to  write  to  him.  Her  natural  quickness, 
which  during  the  silent  years  of  her  servitude  she  had 
expended  in  intense  observation  of  women  whose  ad- 
vantages had  been  greater  than  her  own,  had  enabled 
her  to  cover  her  own  educational  deficiencies  to  a  great 
extent.  Every  word  in  the  rude  scrawl  before  him  had 
been  dictated  by  the  most  unselfish  devotion  for  him- 
self, but,  stripped  of  the  dazzling  blandishments  of  her 
voluptuous  beauty  and  lavish  caresses,  the  fact  of  his 
wife's  woeful  ignorance  struck  him  with  the  force  of  a 
blow.  After  one  hasty  perusal  of  the  letter  he  crushed 
it  savagely  in  his  hand  with  a  sense  of  absolute  disgust, 
which  obliterated  all  appreciation  of  her  sublime  self- 
sacrifice.  And  this  was  the  mother  of  his  only  son ! 
This  the  woman  who  was  to  rear  the  future  bearer  of  the 
name  of  Quinby !  Poor  child,  she  had  not  ventured 
very  far  in  the  thorny,  epistolary  path.  It  was  a  short 
note,  but  a  potential  one.  It  ran : 

"Mv  PRESIIUS  HUSBAN.    I'm  fraid  Bisshup  Shaw 


THE  END  OF  A  STRUGGLE.  327 

won't  make  it  cleer  to  you  that  I'm  purfectly  happy  here 
in  Logun  with  my  deer  little  babie.  Dont  frett  about 
us  deer  John,  until  things  blow  over,  and  then  we  will 
be  happy  together  agane.  Your  loving  Barb." 

Why  was  it  that  as  John  Quinby  crushed  this  scrawl 
deep  into  his  pocket,  there  arose  before  him  Anna's 
image  ?  Anna,  as  he  had  seen  her  just  before  he  went 
East,  and  as  he  would  see  her  again  to-morrow ;  calm 
in  her  resignation  ;  majestic  in  her  self-poised  dignity  ; 
ministering  to  the  wants  of  her  household  with  wise 
discretion  ;  swaying  her  little  daughters  to  her  lightest 
wish  by  the  gentle  firmness  of  her  rule ;  shedding  *a 
halo  of  peaceful  happiness  about  the  stricken  head  of 
Effie's  father !  A  beautiful  embodiment  of  virtue  and 
purity,  the  hem  of  whose  garment  he  was  not  worthy 
4:o  kiss  !  Thinking  of  Anna  he  felt  as  one  who,  prone 
in  the  bottom  of  a  horrible  pit,  looks  up  and  sees  the 
stars  shining  above  him  serene,  cold,  divine,  far,  far 
away  ! 

He  would  be  under  the  same  roof  with  her  to-mor- 
row, but  would  any  thing  ever  bring  them  nearer 
together  than  the  stars  to  the  pit?  The  night  was  one 
of  tumultuous  unrest  for  him,  the  demons  of  remorse 
and  self-reproach  and  perplexity  holding  high  carnival 
in  his  breast. 

The  next  morning  found  him  installed  with  his 
family.  Anthony,  careful  only  to  protect  the  name  of 
Quinby  from  fresh  defilement,  urged  upon  him  the 


328  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

necessity  of  walking  circumspectly  while  he  was  under 
espionage.  And  it  was  not  hard  to  persuade  him  to 
follow  Bishop  Shaw's  advice  and  take  no  steps  to  com- 
municate with  Barbara  at  that  time. 

Any  one  chancing  to  look  into  the  Quinby  library 
on  a  night  of  the  week  following  Mr.  Quinby's  return 
from  New  York,  without  knowing  any  thing  of  their 
family  affairs,  would  have  pronounced  it  a  serenely 
happy  family  gathering.  Mr.  Quinby,  known  to  his 
children  as  the  never-failing  source  of  all  sorts  of 

material  blessings,  and,  in  consequence,  an    object  of 

0 
tumultuous   affection    to  them,  was  sitting  under  the 

gas-light  by  the  center-table,  with  the  little  Comfort 
curled  up  luxuriously  in  his  arms,  joyously  amusing 
herself  with  his  watch,  now  held  to  her  tiny  ear,  now 
slowly  swung  backward  and  forward  by  its  glittering 
chain.  Anthony  near  by,  with  Mercy  between  his 
knees,  was  telling  her  a  wondrous  story  to  which  the 
tiny  mite  was  listening  with  fascinated  ears.  Dr. 
Ambrose,  whose  long  white  hair  flowed  in  waves 
nearly  to  his  shoulders,  dozed  placidly  in  the  most 
comfortable  chair  in  the  room.  The  old  man  was 
slowly  and  restfully  sinking  into  oblivion  of  every 
thing  that  pained  him.  Anna's  sewing  lay  neglected 
in  her  lap  ;  her  hands  folded  about  it,  her  eyes  follow- 
ing the  motions  of  Mercy's  restless  feet,  but  her 
thoughts  far,  far  away. 

She  was  thinking — with  the  divine  pity  of  one  who 


THE  END  OF  A  STRUGGLE.  329 

has  passed  through  the  fiery  furnace,  and  come  out  as 
silver  tried  and  purified  by  the  ordeal — of  Barbara, 
ignorant,  passionate,  misled,  suffering !  She  was  think- 
ing of  the  monstrous  crime  of  Mormonism,  which 
selected  for  its  victims  women — always  women  !  The 
more  helpless,  the  more  credulous,  the  more  ignorant, 
the  more  degraded — the  more  acceptable !  It  was 
women  who  bore  the  brunt  of  its  curse !  It  was 
women  who  suffered  in  its  success !  It  was  women 
who  would  be  crushed  when  the  temple  should  fall  and 
bury  them  under  its  ruins  !  It  was  women  who  must 
cower  beneath  the  obloquy  that  wrapped  it  about  as 
with  a  pall ! 

As  the  clock  struck  nine,  the  twins,  the  one  gliding 
from  her  father's  arms,  the  other  demurely  leaving  her 
place  by  Anthony's  knee,  approached  their  mother  with 
eager  expectancy  in  their  faces.  Anna,  roused  from 
her  reverie  by  the  touch  of  their  little  hands,  said  to 
her  husband  in  that  coldly  even  voice  she  reserved  for 
him  alone:  "I  always  sing  to  the  children  the  last 
thing  before  putting  them  to  bed.  If  it  will  annoy 


you 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  have  been  hungering  to  hear 
your  voice  in  one  of  the  old  tunes.  May  I  select  the 
tune  to-night,  Anna?  " 

He  caught  her  hand  as  she  passed  him  on  her  way 
to  the  piano,  and  held  it  while  he  looked  up  pleadingly 
into  her  face. 


330  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

It  was  a  long  time  since  he  had  pleaded  to  her  for 
any  thing.  It  was  a  long  time  since  she  had  allowed 
her  eyes  to  rest  on  his  face  in  any  thing  but  the  most 
cursory  glance.  As  she  stood  immediately  over  him 
now.  she  could  see  the  gray  thickly  flecking  the  brown 
hair  with  which  once  she  had  dearly  loved  to  toy!  His 
eyes  too  looked  haggard  and  worn  !  Perhaps,  after  all, 
he  was  learning  that  the  way  of  the  transgressor  is 
indeed  hard. 

"  You  may  select  the  tune,"  she  said,  "  but  Mercy 
and  Comfort  must  not  lose  Home,  Sweet  Home,  it  is 

their  favorite.  After  that "  she  drew  her  hand 

away  and  walked  toward  the  piano.  Ah,  what  a 
mockery  this  very  man  had  made  of  home,  sweet  home 
for  her.  Tears  were  in  her  voice  as  she  sang  the  ten- 
der old  melody. 

And  outside,  her  face  pressed  close  to  the  cold  glass 
that  divided  her  as  by  an  impassable  gulf  from  all  this 
brightness  and  refinement  and  melody,  stood  Barbara 
Hickman  ! 

Poor,  storm-tossed  Barbara,  who  could  not  stay  at 
Logan  because  it  was  too  far  away  from  John  !  Indis- 
creet Barbara,  who  had  come  back  to  the  city  that 
morning,  and  taking  up  her  quarters  in  a  mean  hostelry 
that  was  full  of  the  noisy,  brawling  miners  who  had  in- 
undated the  place  on  completion  of  the  Southern  Pa- 
cific Railroad,  had  crept  out  to  her  old  home  eager  to 
verify  with  her  own  eyes  the  grief  with  which  she 


THE  END  OF  A  STRUGGLE.  331 

fancied  John  overwhelmed,  bereft  of  her  society! 
Tortured  Barbara,  who,  taking  her  stand  where  she 
had  often  taken  it  in  the  days  when  she  had  loved  this 
man  so  passionately,  with  no  dream  of  ever  being 
exalted  to  the  bearing  of  his  name,  saw  now  how  easily 
he  had  found  consolation,  realized  for  the  first  time 
how  soon  we  are  forgot. 

She  stood  motionless  for  a  full  hour  secure  from  dis- 
covery. The  lights  were  all  in  the  library,  the  parlor 
windows  were  in  darkness.  When  John  seized  his 
wife's  hand  and  held  it  while  he  looked  up  so  plead- 
ingly into  her  face,  that  tortured  soul  out  there  in  the 
dark  night  found  relief  in  a  stifled  moan !  She  turned 
and  fled  back  to  the  tavern  where  she  had  left  her  baby 
in  charge  of  a  friendly  miner. 

In  the  quietness  of  her  own  room  that  night  she 
calmed  her  anguish  of  jealousy  by  all  the  fond  argu- 
ments of  a  woman's  heart  when  it  wishes  to  shield  its 
idol  of  clay  from  blame.  What  did  she  want  ?  Hadn't 
she  begged  him  not  to  fret,  and  now  was  she  to  make 
herself  miserable  because  he  was  obeying  her?  She 
was  a  most  exacting,  unreasonable  simpleton ! 
she  want  John  to  run  his  neck  into  a  noose  just  to  sat- 
isfy her  that  he  loved  her?  Of  course  he  loved  her! 
Had  he  not  said  so  over  and  over  again  ?  And  so, 
night  after  night,  tortured,  fascinated,  driven  back  to 
her  spying  in  an  agony  of  longing,  driven  away  from  it 
in  a  passion  of  jealousy,  Barbara  paced  the  weary 


33 2  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

way  from  the  tavern  to  the  Quinby  cottage  and  back 
again,  more  desolate  for  every  going. 

Returned  from  one  of  these  harrowing  pilgrimages 
one  night,  the  miner  who  always  volunteered  to  "  watch 
over  the  kid"  for  her  while  she  was  away  looked  boldly 
down  into  her  face  as  she  took  the  child  from  him,  and 
asked  : 

"  How  much  longer  is  you  going  to  keep  up  that 
blamed  foolishness?" 

Barbara  blanched  to  the  lips,  and  fastened  a  fright- 
ened gaze  on  him. 

"  I  don't — I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  stam- 
mered. 

"  Oh,  gammon !  yes,  you  do.  If  you  don't,  I'll  tell 
you.  Maybe  you  think  I  don't  know  you're  Quinby 's 
handsome  wife,  that  old  Shaw  run  out  of  town.  Least- 
ways you're  not  his  wife,  you  know :  a  fellow  can't 
have  but  one  wife." 

Barbara  turned  as  if  to  fly  out  again  into  the  dark 
night.  Was  there  no  more  rest  in  this  world  for  her? 
His  strong  hand  was  laid  on  her  arm.  He  drew  her 
down  on  the  bench  by  his  side  and  said,  not  harshly, 
but  in  a  roughly  masterful  fashion : 

"  Hold  on,  now.  Don't  go  to  making  matters  any 
worse.  I'm  free  to  say  you've  struck  my  fancy.  Blast 
John  Quinby's  eyes,  if  it  was  only  him  was  concerned, 
I'd  'a'  peached  on  you,  long  ago.  I  see  what  you're 
wearing  your  heart  out  about.  I  tell  you,  it's  a  relief 


THE  END  OF  A  STRUGGLE.  333 

to  the  scoundrel  to  be  shet  of  you.  There's  one  com- 
fortable  and  safe  road  out  of  this  mess  for  you,  and 
only  one.  You  needn't  hope  them  commissioners  is 
going  to  go  back  where  they  come  from  and  let  this 
rotten  old  concern  called  Mormonism  go  on  crushing 
out  women's  lives  just  for  the  beastly  pleasure  of  a  lot 
of  beastly  men.  I  tell  you,  polygamy's  got  to  go.  I'm 
sorry  for  you,  blest  if  I  ain't.  I'm  sorry  for  every  wo- 
man that's  been  took  in  like  you  have.  I  like  you, 
you're  as  handsome  as  a  picture.  You've  got  go  in 
you,  too.  Say  the  word  and  we'll  be  out  of  this  ac- 
cursed hole  in  twenty-four  hours.  I'll  look  out  for 
you." 

A  tigress  about  to  leap  upon  her  prey  could  look  or 
feel  no  fiercer  than  Barbara  Hickman  as  she  sat  look- 
ing up  at  the  man  who  made  this  insulting  proposition 
to  her.  Gleams  of  light  flashed  from  her  eyes,  her 
hands  writhed  in  and  about  each  other  in  a  fury  of 
restlessness.  Her  bosom  rose  and  fell  tumultuously, 
but  no  words  came  to  her  relief. 

The  miner  regarded  her  curiously.  She  made  him 
think  of  a  beautiful  panther  at  bay.  Then  he  said 
coolly : 

"  I  see  you're  on  fire  now.  But  the  time  will  come 
when  you'll  think  it  good  luck  to  be  asked  in  decent 
marriage  by  a  miner.  Only  this  one  thing :  don't  you 
go  to  try  to  get  away  from  here.  You  can't  succeed.  I 
ain't  a  going  to  lose  sight  of  you,  that's  all.  You'd  best 


334  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

go  to  bed  now.  You  can't  slip  me,  you  needn't  to 
try." 

A  week  had  passed  since  this  strange  offer  had  been 
made  Barbara.  Night  after  night  the  miner,  hold- 
ing the  child  of  John  Quinby  as  hostage  for  the 
mother's  return,  watched  Barbara's  departure  for  the 
house  from  which  she  always  returned  more  haggard 
and  miserable  than  when  she  went.  On  this  night  her 
whole  appearance  was  that  of  one  worn  to  the  last 
edge  of  endurance. 

"Something  more'n  common  's  up,"  he  said,  looking 
at  her  with  contemptuous  pity,  "  and  I  can  tell  you 
what  it  is." 

"You  don't  need  to  tell  me,"  she  said,  in  a  slow, 
stubborn  voice.  Then  without  any  change  of  mien,  no 
more  brightness  coming  into  her  tones,  she  added, 
"  Does  your  offer  hold  good  ?  I'm  worn  out !  I'm 
worn  out  body  and  soul !  He  don't  care  for  me  any 
more  than  he  does  for  the  mat  he  wipes  his  foot  on. 
If  polygamy  didn't  come  from  divine  command,  as 
they  made  me  believe,  then  my  soul's  lost  any  how,  and 
it  don't  make  much  difference  what  else  happens,  I 
reckon." 

"  My  offer  holds  good,"  said  the  miner.  "  I'll  make 
you  happier  than  you  are  now,  any  ways." 

It  was  a  strange  wooing  and  a  stranger  winning. 

A  low,  bitter  laugh  escaped  Barbara's  lips,  then  she 
sat  quite  still  for  a  long  time  lost  in  reverie.  What 


THE  END  OF  A  STRUGGLE. 


335 


was  to  be  the  end  of  it  ?  For  two  months  now  she  had 
led  the  life  of  a  stray  dog.  If  polygamy  was  to  go  as 
this  man  and  so  many  others  were  insisting,  what  had 
she  left  to  hope  for  from  John  Quinby  ?  Had  she  not 
heard  him  that  very  night,  the  window  being  open,  say 
to  his  brother,  that  if  he  could  find  "  that  poor  girl 
Barbara  and  make  matters  smooth  for  her — '  She  had 
not  wanted  to  hear  more.  She  was  only  that  "  poor 
girl  Barbara,"  he  did  not  say  "his  wife  Barbara." 
It  would  be  no  hard  task  for  any  man  to  make  her 
happier  than  she  was  now.  She  was  too  tired  of  brain, 
too  sick  of  soul  to  map  out  a  future  for  herself. 

"Will  you  give  me  one  more  night?"  she  asked  of 
the  miner,  getting  up  to  go  away  from  him,  with  her 
baby  in  her  arms. 

"  Yes.  But  don't  you  try  my  patience  to  be  helping 
that " 

"  Don't  call  him  names,  please.  I  don't  never  expect 
to  see  him  after  to-morrow  night.  Good-night, 
Williams,  and  thank  you." 

The  next  night  Barbara  did  not  bring  the  child  to  be 
cared  for  by  the  miner.  He  saw  her  go  out  of  the 
tavern  door  with  it  in  her  arms.  He  followed.  What 
was  she  up  to  now?  Did  she  have  it  in  her  poor  head 
to  destroy  herself  and  the  kid  too  ?  No  ;  she  went 
straight  up  to  John  Quinby's  door.  Stooping,  she  laid 
her  folded  shawl  on  the  cold  stone  threshold,  then  lay- 
ing her  child  upon  it,  she  kneeled  over  him,  kissed  him 


336  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

once,  twice,  three  times,  then  stood  up  and  raising  her 
clenched  hands  high  over  her  head,  called  down 
heaven's  curse  on  that  house  and  all  its  inmates.  Giv- 
ing the  door  bell  one  fierce  ring  she  turned  to  fly  and 
ran  faint  and  gasping  into  the  miner's  arms. 

"  Don't  be  scared,  my  girl,  it's  me,  Williams.  I  fol- 
lowed you  to  see  you  done  yourself  no  hurt." 

"  Take  me  away  from  here  !  Quick,  quick,  quick  ! 
Any  where,  any  where  only  so  it's  where  I'll  never 
hear  of  him  again  !  " 

He  took  her  at  her  word — took  her  away  from  there, 
out  of  John  Quinby's  life,  out  of  the  ken  of  this 
chronicler.  Poor  Barbara,  untutored  of  mind  and  heart 
and  soul ;  more  sinned  against  than  sinning. 

Drawn  to  his  front  door  by  the  violent  ringing  of  its 
bell,  Mr.  Quinby  almost  stumbled  over  a  bundle  lying 
there.  Stooping  to  examine  it,  his  hand  passed  over 
the  soft,  smooth  cheeks  of  a  little  child.  Hastily  gath- 
ering the  bundle  into  his  arms  he  carried  it  to  the  hall 
lamp.  A  thick  veil  almost  concealed  the  baby  face.  A 
note  was  pinned  to  the  shawl.  He  staggered  under 
the  weight  of  the  child  as  he  recognized  Barbara's 
handwriting.  Laying  the  waif  upon  the  hall  settee,  he 
unpinned  the  note  and  read  it  by  the  light  over  his 
head.  This  was  all  there  was  in  it : 

"You  hate  me  and  I've  gone  where  you  will  never 
hear  of  me  again.  You're  better  able  to  take  care  of 
our  child  than  I  am.  I  would  get  to  hating  it  after 
awhile,  for  its  likeness  to  you." 


THE  END  OF  A  STRUGGLE.  337 

That  was  all.  How  long  he  stood  there  he  never 
knew.  The  child  awoke  and  lifted  up  its  voice.  The 
strange  sound  brought  Mrs.  Quinby  and  Anthony  out 
into  the  hall  with  amazed  faces.  Mr.  Quinby  laid 
Barbara's  letter  in  his  wife's  hand.  She  read  it  once 
and  again,  then  stood  with  hands  clasped  and  head 
bowed  as  if  in  prayer.  Whatever  the  conflict  in  that 
pure  soul  God  gave  her  the  victory.  Going  over  to  the 
settee  she  kneeled  by  the  wailing  infant,  and  gathering 
it  in  her  arms  said,  in  a  sweet,  solemn  voice  : 

"  Child  of  sin  and  sorrow,  I  adopt  you  for  my  very 
own.  God  helping  me,  you  shall  never  know  of  the 
cloud  that  has  enveloped  your  infancy." 

And  surely  if  the  recording  angel  had  aught  set 
down  in  his  book  against  Anna  Quinby's  name,  in  that 
moment  he  must  have  blotted  it  out  forever. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

A   PARTHIAN   DART. 

IT  soon  got  noised  abroad  that  Mr.  Quinby's  wife 
Barbara  had  fled  to  parts  unknown,  leaving  her 
child  at  her  husband's  door.  When  Ferdinand  Cosgrove 
corroborated  this  rumor  by  the  direct  testimony  of 
Anthony  Quinby,  he  relinquished  all  hope  of  seeing 
John  Quinby  brought  to  justice.  There  was  no  longer 
any  reason  why  he  should  linger  in  a  place  fraught  with 
nothing  but  painful  associations.  He  began  to  make 
preparations  for  his  immediate  return  to  Elizabeth, 
where  he  proposed  to  settle  as  a  practitioner,  taking 
Dr.  Ambrose  with  him,  of  course. 

In  consultation  with  Anna  and  Anthony  Quinby, 
between  whom  and  himself  a  warm  and  abiding  friend- 
ship had  sprung  up,  it  was  decided  that  Dr.  Ambrose's 
happiness  would  best  be  secured  by  the  carrying  out  of 
Effie's  wishes  that  one  of  Ferdinand's  sisters  should 
take  her  place  in  the  home  she  had  deserted,  and  fill  a 
daughter's  place  toward  her  father. 

In  numerous  letters  home,  Ferdinand  had  made  the 
quiet  dwellers  in  that  obscure  plantation  house  far  away 
in  Mississippi  familiar  with  the  darkly  exciting  ex- 


A  PARTHIAN  DART.  339 

periences  that  had  come  to  him  since  leaving  New 
Jersey.  Effie's  desire  had  long  since  been  submitted 
to  them,  and  now  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but 
to  write  and  let  them  know  the  date  of  his  proposed 
return  to  Elizabeth,  petitioning  that  the  sister  of  his 
choice  should  be  there  in  advance  to  make  the  home- 
coming as  bright  as  possible  for  the  desolate  old  man 
whose  own  life,  until  its  darkening,  had  been  one  long 
ministry  to  the  comfort  and  happiness  of  others. 

It  was  the  night  before  leaving  Salt  Lake  City.  The 
doctor  was  spending  his  last  evening  with  Anna,  his 
packing  all  over.  Ferdinand  Cosgrove  paced  the  narrow 
confines  of  his  dismantled  hotel  room  in  moody  abstrac- 
tion. He  was  writhing  under  a  sense  of  defeat !  The 
failure  of  the  case  against  John  Quinby  made  him  feel 
savage.  He  was  also  bitterly  conscious  how  much 
more  largely  revenge  entered  into  his  motives  than  a 
sense  of  abstract-justice. 

"Heavens!"  he  exclaimed,  in  loud  self-denuncia- 
tion, "am  I  too  becoming  dehumanized  in  this  vitiated 
atmosphere?  Can  any  creature  breath  under  the  Upas 
tree  of  Mormonism  and  not  lose  all  sense  of  honor, 
virtue,  purity  and  justice?  If  I  could  but  make  the 
world  see  it  as  I  have  seen  it,  feel  it  as  I  have  felt  it 
in  my  heart  and  soul  and  life,  I'd  speed  one  Parthian 
dart!" 

Suddenly  seating  himself,  he  drew  writing  materials 
close  to  him  and  began  writing  with  fierce  rapidity. 


340  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

Without  pause  or  hindrance  he  wrote  on  and  on,  and 
in  due  course  of  time  the  closely  written  pages  lay 
piled  up  before  him  ready  for  mailing  to  the  New  York 
paper,  that  accepted  his  article  on  Mormonism  as  they 
would  have  accepted  any  item  of  novelty,  touching  the 
king  of  the  Cannibal  Islands  or  the  fabled  sea  serpent ! 

Few  who  read  his  fiery  denunciations  of  the  Mor- 
mons in  the  columns  of  the  daily  Argus  from  time  to 
time,  ever  knew  how  much  of  an  ardent  young  soul's 
bitterest  disappointment  lent  lurid  force  to  those 
denunciations.  Few  who  read  his  bitter  tirades  against 
the  mockery  of  justice,  as  meted  out  to  polygamists, 
knew  that  it  was  from  the  fullness  of  an  embittered 
heart  that  Ferdinand  Cosgrove  wrote  such  lines  as 
these : 

"  No  one  who  has  spent  any  time  in  Utah,  or  whose 
opinions  are  based  on  personal  observation,  can  ever 
hope  to  see  polygamy  abolished  without  bloodshed. 
No  amount  of  legislation,  no  amount  of  public  pres- 
sure was  found  sufficient  to  stamp  out  slavery  until  put 
to  the  arbitrament  of  arms.  The  passage  of  laws 
against  this  institution  must  perforce  remain  only  par- 
tially remedial  so  long  as  the  farce  of  trial  by  jury, 
where  it  is  next  to  impossible  to  empanel  a  jury  of 
twelve  men  opposed  to  it,  stands  in  the  way  of  justice, 
or  where,  priest-ridden  as  they  are.  the  Mormons 
openly  boast  of  their  contempt  for  such  legal  efforts. 
Doubtless  if  the  Endowment  House  books  were  as 


A  PARTHIAN  DART.  341 

accessible  as  the  records  of  our  civil  courts,  convictions 
by  the  thousand  could  be  made  and  the  Saints  would 
crowd  the  jails.  But  these  destroyers  of  men's  con- 
sciences and  women's  souls  keep  sleepless  vigil  over 
their  own.  I  have  heard  it  said  that  these  records  are 
surrounded  by  dynamite,  so  that  in  event  of  danger, 
all  written,  evidence  against  the  Saints  can  be  blown 
out  of  existence.  Without  proof  what  hope  of  convic- 
tions !  Nowhere  is  a  man  called  on  to  criminate  him- 
self, and  here  to  lie  in  defense  of  one  who  holds  the 
tenets  of  the  New  Gospel  is  esteemed  a  prime  virtue. 
Controlled  by  a  terror  of  their  bishops  and  elders,  which 
far  surpasses  any  a  civil  magistrate  can  impose,  the 
women  are  worse  than  valueless  as  witnesses.  They 
are  but  so  many  tools  in  the  hands  of  the  men. 

"  Believing,  as  the  most  intelligent  Mormons  must, 
that  it  is  but  a  question  when  the  institution  so  dear 
to  their  own  souls  shall  become  utterly  untenable  in  a 
country  to  whose  religious  and  civil  regulations  it  is  so 
utterly  antagonistic,  there  is  an  under-current  of  tre- 
mendous fear  pervading  all  ranks,  which  is  produced 
by  the  attitude  of  the  authorities  at  Washington. 

"  Taylor  denies  being  a  practicing  polygamist ;  also, 
that  he  does  not  inculcate  it  in  the  doctrine  of  his 
church.  Taylor  has  seven  wives,  and  is,  it  is  rumored, 
about  to  be  sealed  to  an  eighth.  What  credence  can 
be  eiven  to  the  statements  of  a  sect  which  approves  of 

o 

lying  in  defense  of  its  Church  ?     What  hope  of  a  com- 


342  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

munity  where  priests,  the  conservators  (or  should  be 
conservators)  of  public  morals  compel  polygamy? 
Yes,  compel!  It  is  not  simply  optional.  Intimida- 
tions and  threats  are  brought  to  bear  upon  the  vacil- 
lating or  the  doubtful.  Parental  authority  is  brought 
to  bear  upon  the  young  and  malleable.  They  are 
early  taught  to  regard  this  devilish  institution  as  the 
embodiment  of  wisdom  and  purity.  Women,  steeped 
in  spiritual  ignorance  are  taught  that  they  can  not 
enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven  unless  they  are  sealed  to 
a  polygamist.  To  readers  of  such  statements  at  a  dis- 
tance they  seem  marvelous,  and  that  intelligent 
beings  in  the  nineteenth  century  can  be  brought  into 
such  mental  servitude  surpasses  the  marvelous,  but 
the  facts  are  as  here  stated  and  are  the  common  prop- 
erty of  any  intelligent  observer  of  life  among  the 
Mormons. 

"  And  what  would  you  expect  from  the  homes  of  such 
a  people?  What  could  you  hope  from  an  institution 
that  permits  such  beastly  practices  ?  What  would  you 
think  of  seven  families  in  one  room  ?  What  hope  for 
children  reared  in  such  an  atmosphere?  Oh,  men  and 
women  of  Christian  lives  and  Christian  hopes  and 
Christian  fears,  arise  in  your  might  and  demand  that 
this  foul  blot  be  wiped  from  the  fair  fame  of  our 
country  !  Do  not  enter  your  feeble  protests,  and  then 
subside  once  more  with  a  criminal  indifference  !  Unite 
in  one  resistless  onslaught.  Demand,  and  refuse  to  be 


A  PARTHIAN  DART.  343 

denied,  that  the  country  you  live  in  and  love,  the  land 
your  children  are  to  be  reared  in  shall  not  be  contami- 
nated by  the  foul  infection  of  Mormonism.  Yes,  infec- 
tion !  Choose  which  you  will.  Either  stamp  it  out  or 
submit  quietly  to  its  spread!  For  the  spirit  of 
Mormonism  is  the  spirit  of  unresting  conquest.  To-day 
your  cities  swarm  with  its  emissaries.  North,  South, 
East  and  West,  the  serpent  brood  glides,  noiselessly, 
secretively,  fatally,  poisoning  the  pure  fountain  of 
home  affection,  destroying,  everywhere  the  hallowed 
bonds  of  domesticity,  leaving  desolation  and  ruin 
always  in  their  track.  Is  the  religion  that  makes  the 
daughter  desert  the  father,  the  mother  abandon  her 
offspring,  the  wife  turn  in  abhorrence  from  the  father 
of  her  children,  the  brother  heap  curses  upon  a  brother, 
a  religion  to  be  fostered  or  even  endured  in  the  same 
land  that  knows  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  and  accepts  His 
law  of  love  for  its  law  of  life  ?  Is  the  word  Liberty, 
the  watch-word  of  a  nation's  security,  to  be  travestied 
and  besmirched  into  meaning  license  for  a  bestial  form 
of  worship  that  degrades  humanity  and  insults  the 
majesty  of  Heaven?  If  ignorance  of  its  blackness  lies 
at  the  root  of  the  nation's  apathy,  then  let  whomsoever 
can,  lend  his  might  to  rend  the  veil  of  mystery  from 
this  hideous  thing  called  Mormonism.  Let  no  one 
handle  it  with  kid-gloved  caution.  Let  none  hope  to 
heal  the  cancerous  sore  with  gentle  emollients.  Let 
him  who  knows  it  in  the  depth  and  breadth  and  loath- 


344  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

someness  of  its  reality  paint  it  in  the  colors  of  truth, 
though  the  words  flame  and  scorch  wheresoever  they 
may  fall.  Dante's  Inferno  is  not  to  be  depicted  in  the 
smooth  moving  measure  of  the  madrigals,  nor  does  one 
warn  his  fellow  creature  from  the  brink  of  a  precipice 
by  crooning  a  lullaby  over  him  !  " 

This  impassioned  plea  for  the  purging  of  our  land 
from  the  crime  of  polygamy  off  his  mind,  Ferdinand 
flung  himself  on  his  bed  and  slept  heavily  until  late  in 
the  morning  of  his  last  day  in  Utah ! 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

A  PARTIAL  ATONEMENT! 

THE  10.30  P.  M.  train  was  the  one  Ferdinand  had 
tickets  for.  A  long,  idle  day  stared  him  in  the  face, 
when  he  finally  awakened.  It  was  in  early  June,  and 
he  thought  with  satisfaction  for  the  doctor,  of  how 
pretty  the  flowers,  in  the  little  garden  at  Elizabeth, 
would  be  looking  on  their  arrival.  The  old  man  was 
filled  with  the  prattling  delight  of  a  child  at  the  pros- 
pect of  returning  to  the  homelike  place!  As  for  him- 
self, there  was  nothing  specially  alluring  in  any  direc- 
tion for  him.  Conscious  of  excessive  mental  and  phys- 
ical heaviness  on  this  morning  his  mind  reverted, 
somewhat  eagerly,  to  his  chief  source  of  physical  en- 
joyment since  his  enforced  residence  in  Salt  Lake 
City.  It  had  consisted  in  running  down,  by  train,  to 
Black  Rock,  to  bathe  in  the  delightfully  buoyant 
waters  of  the  great  Salt  Lake.  The  day  promised  to 
be  a  sultry  one.  At  this  season  of  the  year  the  waters 
were  of  a  delightful  temperature.  The  thought  of  one 
more  plunge  off  the  pier  at  Black  Rock  assailed  him  in 
form  of  a  temptation.  It  would  brace  him  for  the 


346  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

coming  ordeal  by  rail,  with  its  wearisome  guardianship 
of  his  helpless  fellow-traveler.  He  would  run  down 
and  take  one  more  glorious  plunge.  There  was  ample 
time.  It  was  only  a  swift  ride  of  twenty  miles  by  rail. 
He  would  be  back  by  six  at  the  furthest. 

Arrived  at  Black  Rock,  he  walked  leisurely  toward 
the  long  wooden  pier  that  stretched  far  out  into  the 
waters  of  the  lake.  He  congratulated  himself  that  it 
was  both  too  early  in  the  season  and  the  day  for  many 
bathers  to  be  on  hand.  Before  reaching  the  pier  he 
became  aware  of  some  excitement  among  the  few 
loungers  to  be  found  there  at  all  times.  There  were 
wild  gesticulations  and  excited  cries !  Then,  rapidly 
advancing  toward  him,  one  after  another,  three  men, 
who,  from  rapid  walking,  increased  their  speed  by  rapid 
running  before  they  got  abreast  of  him. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  Ferd  asked,  halting  the  first  runner, 
who  stopped  only  long  enough  to  gasp  out,  "  Man 
drowning!  Hunting  boat!  Never  to  be  found  when 
wanted ! " 

"  But  a  man  can't  drown  in  this  water  unless  it  is  his 
preference,"  says  Ferdinand,  incredulously,  "and  what 
are  you  running  this  way  for?  why  don't  you  swim 
out  to  him?" 

"  Maybe  it  is  his  preference,"  says  the  second  runner, 
halting  to  mop  his  forehead,  "  but  if  it  is,  he's  about 
gratified  !  Couldn't  swim  in  for  him.  He's  too  heavy ! 
He'd  a  been  a  dead  weight  on  any  man  in  his  fix." 


A  PARTIAL  ATONEMENT.  347 

"  If  he  drowns,  you're  all  responsible  for  it,"  says 
Cosgrove,  speeding  forward  toward  the  pier,  divest- 
ing himself  of  his  coat  and  vest  as  he  ran.  The 
swimmer  might  have  been  seized  with  cramps,  or  he 
might  have  inadvertently  inhaled  the  salt  water  into 
his  mouth  and  nostrils,  and  was  strangling.  That  was 
th-e  only  element  of  danger  in  bathing  in  this  lake. 
Be  the  trouble  what  it  might,  a  plunge  after  him  was 
a  speedier  rescue  than  a  boat.  Hatless  and  coatless 
he  reached  the  end  of  the  pier.  Only  one  man  was  to 
be  seen  on  it,  and  he  was  kneeling  motionless,  his  body 
bent  far  forward,  and  his  strained  eyes  fastened  in  an 
agony  of  terrible  apprehension  upon  a  spot  where  the 
disturbed  waters  gurgled  and  boiled,  but  no  swimmer 
was  visible !  At  the  sound  of  Ferdinand's  rushing 
advance  and  panting  breath,  the  watcher  on  the  pier 
staggered  to  his  feet,  and  turned  a  white  face  toward 
him  !  It  was  Anthony  Quinby !  Ferdinand  spoke 
without  taking  his  eyes  from  the  water.  He  was 
watching  for  the  bather's  reappearance: 

"  Ah  !  Quinby,  you  here  !  They  tell  me  a  bather's 
gone  down.  How  many  times  has  he  sunk  ? " 

"Once!  It's  John!  My  God,  he's  gone !"  It  was  a 
brother's  cry  of  agony. 

"John  Quinby!" 

Cosgrove's  eyes  left  the  lake  for  the  first  time,  as  he 
faced  toward  the  helpless  cripple  whose  strained  gaze 
had  gone  back  to  the  water.  A  dark,  ugly  gleam  came 


348  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

into  his  black  eyes.  He  folded  his  arms  rigidly,  as  he 
muttered  between  clenched  teeth: — "John  Quinby, 
out  there  in  the  bubbling  waters!  Thief!  Murderer! 
Liar!  Let  him  sink!  Let  him  be  swept  from  the 
world  he  contaminated  !  " 

Anthony  seized  the  locked  arms  and  shook  them  in 
his  torture,  as  he  cried  hoarsely,  "  Cosgrove,  it  is  a 
demon  in  you  that  uttered  those  words  !  You  would 
not  let  a  dog  die  so !  If  you  fail  to  use  your  strength 
to  save  him,  loathsome  as  he  is  in  your  eyes,  this  hour 
will  haunt  you  to  the  day  of  your  own  death  !  Help- 
less cumbererof  the  earth  that  I  am,  I  could  not  succor 
him.  But  for  Anna  I  would  be  willing  to  try  it !  Save 
him,  Cosgrove!  Save  him,  as  you  would  a  dog  thrown 
helpless  on  your  mercy !  " 

"You  are  right !  I  have  saved  a  dog's  life  before  !  " 
This  fierce  colloquy  had  consumed  but  a  moment  of 
time.  The  two  men  stood  side  by  side  on  the  edge  of 
the  pier.  Ferdinand  was  stripped  for  the  plunge  to 
rescue  his  enemy  from  death.  In  the  gleaming  sun- 
light a  pallid  face  shone  once  more  on  the  surface  of 
the  dancing  wavelets.  Swinging  his  agile  arms  far 
above'  his  bared  head,  the  Mississippian  leaped  boldly 
into  the  buoyant  waters,  then  with  long,  swift  strokes 
of  arms  and  legs  struck  out  for  the  exhausted  swimmer. 
He  was  by  his  side  just  as  the  waters  parted  to  ingulf 
him  again !  Clutching  him  firmly  by  the  collar,  he 
swam  back  with  his  heavy  burden  to  the  pier,  where 


A  PARTIAL  ATONEMENT.  349 

crowds  were  now  flocking  to  see  the  end  of  the  tragedy. 
Strong  hands  lifted  both  men  from  the  water  on  to  the 
planks  of  the  pier.  Ferdinand  stood  for  a  second, 
looking  down  upon  the  limp  and  motionless  body  of 
the  man  he  hated  no  less  in  death*  than  in  life,  then 
turned  toward  where  he  had  thrown  his  garments. 
There  was  no  sign  of  life  in  John  Quinby's  body. 
There  were  plenty  of  hands  ready  to  engage  in  the 
task  of  resuscitation,  if  resuscitation  were  possible. 
Anthony  kneeled  by  his  brother's  side,  forgetful  of 
everything  but  that  it  was  John  lying  there  cold  and 
white  and  still  !  John !  the  brother  whom  he  had 
loved  with  more  than  a  brother's  affection  all  his  life  ! 
Erring,  gone  astray,  but  John  still.  Ferdinand  drew 
him  away  from  the  prostrate  form,  apart  from  the 
crowd  !  He  held  out  his  hand  as  he  said  : 

"  I'm  going,  Quinby,  and  I  want  to  say  good-by. 
Perhaps  we  may  never  see  each  other  again.  As  you 
stay  and  I  go,  I'm  glad  for  your  sake  that  I  mastered 
the  devil  in  me  just  now  !  "  His  glance  turned  toward 
the  form  on  the  pier.  "  Perhaps  he  did  it  on  purpose ! 
If  he  was  anything  of  a  swimmer  he  must  have  done  it 
on  purpose.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  has  been  my  good 
fortune  to  thwart  John  Quinby's  desire?  I  should 
think  life  would  be  fuller  of  terrors  than  death  to  a 
man  with  his  stained  conscience !  You  said  it  was  a 
demon  that  held  me  back  from  saving  him.  Perhaps 
it  was,  but  it  was  a  demon  of  his  creation 


35°  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

there,  in  that  wet,  limp  form  only  the  destroyer  of  the 
woman  I  loved,  and  the  wrecker  of  my  own  happiness. 
Whether  he  lives  or  dies,  I  do  not  care  a  toss-up  ! 
What  I  did  I  think  I  did  for  your  sake.  If  he  lives,  tell 
him  I  hope  it  will*  add  one  drop  of  gall  to  his  cup  to 
know  that  he  owes  his  life  to  a  man  for  whom  he  has 
blighted  life  !  If  he  dies " 

Anthony's  lips  finished  the  sentence  in  feverish 
haste : 

"  May  God  have  mercy  on  his  soul !  Say  it,  Cos- 
grove  !  Say  it  and  it  will  exorcise  the  demon  of  his 
creation.  Say  it  for  my  sake,  Ferd !  " 

Tony's  sad  eyes  rested  pleadingly  on  the  dark  young 
face  before  him  :  "  After  all,  my  lad,  you  will  come  to 
pity  him ;  I  don't  wonder  at  the  hard  things  that  have 
been  wrung  from  you  in  your  pain  ;  but  shall  mortal 
man  be  more  just  than  God  ?  " 

Ferdinand's  relenting  gaze  met  that  upward,  plead- 
ing look.  He  laid  his  hand  on  Tony's  shoulder.  "  God 
bless  you,  Tony!  You  restore  a  man's  faith  in  his 
kind.  If  he  dies,  may  God  have  mercy  on  his  soul. 
Good-by  and  God  keep  you  !  " 

With  long,  quick  strides  he  walked  away  from  the 
group  of  men  who  were  laboring  with  all  the  devices 
known  to  them  to  restore  the  drowned  man  to  life.  A 
few  hours  later  on  he  had  shaken  the  dust  of  Salt  Lake 
City  from  his  feet  forever. 

John  Quinby  had  done  it  on  purpose.     In  an  agony 


A  PARTIAL  ATONEMENT.  351 

of  remorse,  intensified  by  the  drinking  he  had  done  to 
drown  reflection,  he  had  taken  the  rash  step  which  his 
worst  enemy  rendered  futile.  Gosgrove  had  thwarted 
him  at  last.  He  did  not  die.  Slowly  winning  his  way 
back  to  health  and  strength  he  had  ample  leisure  for 
reflection  on  the  misery  he  had  instilled  into  the  lives 
of  others,  on  the  wreck  he  had  made  for  those  who 
should  have  been  spared  every  pain  at  his  hands.  In 
bitter  self-abasement  he  reproached  God  for  allowing 
him  alone  to  go  scathless  :  he,  the  only  one  who  should 
have  punishment  meted  him  with  merciless  severity. 

"  You  should  have  let  me  die,  Tony,"  he.  said  re- 
morsefully. "  It  would  have  seemed  like  some  sort  of 
expiation.  It  is  hard  to  face  life  again  as  things  are. 
It  is  hard  to  endure  Anna's  calm  scorn.  It  is  hard  to 
know  that  I've  reached  the  summit  of  worldly  pros- 
perity only  to  find  that  all  my  hoard  can  not  purchase 
me  one  little  half  hour  of  unalloyed  happiness." 

"  Perhaps,  John,"  says  Anthony,  with  the  persuasive 
gentleness  of  a  woman,  "God  has  some  good  end  of 
His  own  to  subserve  in  sparing  your  life.  Remember 
that  He  does  not  judge  as  finite  man  judges.  It  is  in 
your  power  still  to  make  atonement  to  the  greatest  suf- 
ferer of  all  by  your  strange  apostasy  from  the  faith  of 
our  mother." 

"You  mean  Anna." 

"  I  mean  our  saintly  Anna." 

"And  the  atonement?" 


35 2  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

"  Is  to  return  to  the  States  with  her  and  your  chil- 
dren to  live." 

"  It  is  her  wish?  " 

"  Her  most  ardent  wish." 

"Will  she  ask  it  of  me  herself?  Oh,  Tony!  if  I 
could  but  once  more  in  life  hear  her  say  'dear  John/ 
in  the  coaxing,  winning  fashion  of  the  early  days,  how 
gladly  my  heart  would  respond  to  her  lightest  request. 
If  I  could  only  win  the  light  of  other  days  back  to  her 
dear  eyes!  If  I  could  only  bask  once  more  in  the 
sweet  smiles  and  tender  words  she  lavished  on  me 
before  I  threw  them  away  in  my  cursed  infatuation. 
If  I  could  win  Anna  back  to  my  heart,  Tony;  win  my 
pure,  serene,  star-like  wife  a  little  closer !  " 

"  That  you  may  never  hope  for,  John.  The  iron  has 
entered  her  soul  too  deeply.  You  brought  her  here  a 
loving,  tender,  dependent  wife.  You  will  take  her 
away  from  here  a  strong  woman,  purified  as  by  fire 
from  all  the  petty  weaknesses  and  frivolities  that  made 
her  dependent  upon  you  for  her  happiness.  She  will 
never  lean  upon  you  again.  Her  heart,  the  heart  that 
you  trampled  upon  in  your  insolent  surety  of  posses- 
sion, and  laid  aside  to  be  used  at  your  own  masterful 
convenience,  has  soared  above  your  reach  forever.  You 
can  never  again  make  it  throb  with  anguish  or  pulse 
with  joy.  It  has  found  a  surer  foundation  for  its  trust 
and  love  than  you  could  ever  afford.  And  the  joys 
that  are  now  hers  are  such  as  earth  can  neither  give  nor 


A  PARTIAL  ATONEMENT.  353 

take  away.  While  you  have  been  groveling  in  the  mire 
of  sensuality,  she  has  been  stepping  steadily  and  surely 
heavenward.  Your  only  hope  of  happiness  lies,  not  in 
uselessly  striving  to  win  her  back,  but  in  seeking  to 
mount  to  higher  planes  of  morality  yourself.  That  is 
your  only  hope  of  lessening  the  immeasurable  distance 
yourself  has  placed  between  your  wife  and  you." 

It  was  his  own  vision  of  the  pit  and  the  star  voiced 
by  Anthony. 

"  One  source  of  gratitude  to  God  you  have  that  can 
not  be  over-estimated,"  says  Anthony,  breaking  the 
long  silence  that  fell  between  them. 

"And  that  is?" 

"  The  inestimable  privilege  of  having  your  son 
reared  by  such  a  woman.  All  that  is  true  and  good 
and  noble  in  manhood  your  boy  will  learn  at  the  knees 
of  his  more  than  mother.  For  him,  I  have  heard  Anna 
say,  she  asked  God  to  grant  the  prayer  of  Socrates: 
'  Make  me  beautiful  within.' " 

And  thus  it  came  about  that  the  Quinbys  once  more 
became  citizens  of  Elizabeth.  People  flocked  to  see 
them  on  their  return  and  commented  freely  on  them 
behind  their  backs.  All  agreed  in  saying  that  Mrs. 
Quinby  was  lovelier  than  ever,  although  much  graver 
and  older,  but  then,  "the  loss  of  little  Abbott  and  the 
care  of  three  more  children  would  account  for  that. 
All  agreed  that  a  more  considerate  or  devoted  husband 


354  THE  BAR-SINISTER. 

no  woman  ever  possessed  than  was  Mr.  Quinby,  who 
was  quoted  as  of  old  as  the  ensample  worthy  of  all 
emulation,  a  man  who  gave  freely  of  his  wealth  to 
every  form  of  charity.  All  agreed  that  it  was  a  species 
of  injustice  done  the  community  that  the  vague  rumors 
concerning  Effie  Ambrose's  death  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains  should  not  be  cleared  up  by  the 
Quinbys.  But  no  one  ever  suspected  the  tragedy  that 
the  two  households  had  played  out  to  its  bitter  end  in 
that  far  away  theater. 


THE  END. 


HAVE    YOU    READ 

The  New  American  Novel 

TRAJAN. 

The   History   of  a   Sentimental    Young    Man, 

with   some   Episodes   in   the    Comedy   of 

many   Lives'   Errors. 

By  HENRY   F.  KEENAN. 

The  story  is  of  international  interest.  The  scene  is  laid  in  Paris 
during  the  exciting  days  that  ushered  in  the  Commune,  and  while 
many  real  persons  figure  among  the  characters,  the  plot  hovers 
round  a  group  of  Americans,  thrown  together  by  the  vicissitudes 
of  the  hour. 


"  Among  the  new  novels  of  the  season, 
Mr.  Henry  F.  Keenan's  'Trajan'  must 
be  promptly  accorded  the  first  place."— 
Ne-w  York  Herald. 

"It  is  much  the  best  novel  that  has  ap- 
peared for  years  in  the  English  or  any 
other  language." — Phila.  Evening  Bul- 
letin. 


" '  Trajan '  is  a  classic,  a  real  gem 
plucked  from  the  mass  of  rubbish  with 
which  the  bookstores  are  crowded."— 
Boston  Times. 

"  Every  careful  bibliographer  of  the 
zoth  century  ought  to  mention  '  Trajan  ' 
as  a  novel  to  be  read  for  scenes  of  the 
iQth  century  in  Paris  and  New  York." — 
Hartford  Post. 


E.  C.  Stedman  pronounces  "Trajan"  : 
"Graphic  and  spirited.  .  .  .  Which 
no  -one  can  read  without  interest,  and 
which  renders  a  welcome  certain  for  the 
future  productions  of  its  author." 

Hjalmar  H.  Bpyesen  writes  :  _"An 
exceptionally  brilliant  novel.  It  is  as 
clever  in  description  as  it  is  vigorous  in 
characterization. " 


H.  H.  Furness,  the  famous  Shakes- 
pearean scholar,  says  :  "  I  like  '  Trajan,* 
first,  for  the  delightful  way  the  author 
has  given  the  very  atmosphere  of  that 
May  afternoon  in  Paris!  Its  sights  are 
in  my  eyes ;  its  sounds  are  in  my  ears, 
and  its  very  smells  are  in  my  nostrils.  No 

Eicture  of     Mcissonier's    can  be    more 
uthful." 


1  Vol.,  12mo.    65O  Pages.    Price,  $I.5O, 


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The  Novel  for  Summer  Reading 

AT  LOVE'S  EXTREMES. 

BY  MAURICE  THOMPSON, 

Author  of  "A  TALLAHASSB  GIRL,"  "  SONGS  OF  FAIR  WEATHER,"  etc.,  etc. 

I  Vol.,  I2mo.  Cloth.    Price,  SI. OO. 

The  scene  of  the  story  is  laid  in  the  mountains  of  Alabama  ;  it  is  a 
thoroughly  American  tale,  as  strong  as  it  is  picturesque. 


OPINIONS  OF  THE  PRESS. 


The  story  is  a  very  strong  one,  with 
picturesque  sketching,  effective  dramatic 
situations,  and  most  admirable  character 
drawing. — Boston  Home  Journal. 

The  interest  is  sustained  to  the  close, 
and  the  reader  is  little  likely  to  lay  the 
book  down  unfinished. — Boston  Courier. 

It  is  bright  with  descriptions  of  scenes, 
and  spicy  with  mountaineer  dialect.  .  . 
The  style  is  charming  and  this  new  work 
of  fiction  will  be  read  widely  and  with 
pleasure. — St.  Louis  Globe  Democrat. 

There  is  an  undertone  to  the  book  that 
is  indescribably  charming.  —  Hartford 
Evening  Post. 

A  delightful  story,  elegantly  designed 
apd  told  in  the  most  interesting  manner. 
— Press,  Albany. 


Crisp  and  fresh  in  style,  and  the  story 
is  told  with  animation. — Brooklyn  Daily 
Times. 


The  attractive  setting,  the  general  color, 
and  the  excellence  of  parts  of  the  action 
make  the  novel  a  very  strong  one. — Bos- 
ton Globe. 


Its  delineations  of  characters  are  mas- 
terpieces .  .  .  and  the  interest  is  so 
well  sustained  that  one  is  reluctant  to  lay 
aside  the  book  until  it  is  finished. — Port- 
land Globe. 


The  author  has  blended  the  beautiful 
and  romantic  in  graceful  thought  which 
charms  and  entertains  the  reader. — South- 
ern Agriculturist. 


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FOR  SUMMER  READING. 

RED     RYVINGTON. 

By  WILLIAM  WESTALL. 

Author  of 141  LARRY  LOHENGRIN,"  "  THE  OLD  FACTORY,"  Etc.,  Etc. 
1  Vol.,  12mo.,  Cloth,  New  Style.     Price,  $1.00. 

There  is  more  of  incident  and  adventure  in  this  story  than  in 
many  a  volume  five  times  its  size.  The  first  chapter  opens  with 
an  adventure,  or  rather  a  series  of  adventures,  that  are  enough  to 
take  the  breath  away,  though  they  are  perfectly  natural  and  might 
well  have  happened  to  any  adventurous  young  man.  The  hero. 
Red  Ryvington,  saves  the  life  of  the  heroine  in  the  first  chapter 
almost  by  a  miracle.  The  early  scenes  of  this  romance  are  laid  in 
the  Alps.  There  is  much  shifting  after  that,  which  lends  variety 
and  color  to  the  story. 

Mr.  Westall  is  a  new  author  to  American  readers,  but  once 
known,  they  will  want  to  continue  the  acquaintance,  for  he  is  a 
novelist  with  a  story  to  tell,  and  who  believes  in  plot,  and  plenty 
of  it.  

POVERTY    CORNER. 

("A  LITTLE  WORLD.") 
A  CITY  STORY, 

By  G.  MANVILLE  FENN, 

Author  of  "  The  Vicar's  People  I*    "  Sweet  Mace,"   "  My  Patients,"  Etc.,  Ete. 
1  Vol.,  12mo.,  Cloth,  New  Style.    Price,  $1.00. 

There  are  touches  of  description  in  "  Poverty  Corner,"  as  well 
as  entire  characters,  which  the  author  of  "A  Christmas  Carol' 
need  not  have  been  ashamed  to  own  amongst  his  happiest  efforts  ; 
whilst  as  a  story  the  book  hardly  could  have  been   improved. 
There  is  plenty  of  incident,  and  that  of  the  most  exciting  nature, 
without  any  exaggeration  or  straining  after  effect ;  the  language  is 
pure  and  terse ;  the  descriptions  both  humorous  and  pathetic,  e: 
tremely  spontaneous,  and  the  several  characters  are  well  and  dis 
tinctly  drawn. 

FOR  SALE   BY  ALL   BOOKSELLERS. 

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T'WO 


SWEET  MACE 

A  SUSSEX  LEGEND  of  the  IRON  TIMES. 

By  G.  MANVILLE  FENN. 

I  Vol.  I2mo.  Cloth,  New  Style.    Sl.OO. 

*'  In  point  of  style  Mr.  Fenn's  writing  is  far  above  the  average  of  writers  of  fiction." 
—  Daily  ffeivs. 

"  We  believe  that  not  many  who  read  the  first  chapter  of  '  Sweet  Mace  '  will  lay  it 
aside  until  they  have  read  the  last."  —  Spectator. 

"  Sweet  Mace  "  is,  we  think,  the  best  of  Mr.  Fenn's  fictions  hitherto.  .  .  .  The 
scene  is  laid  in  a  period,  and  under  conditions  more  appropriate  to  adventures  than 
those  of  recent  times.  The  novel  is  a  romance,  in  which  truth  of  coloring  is  aimed  at, 
and  successfully,  in  preference  to  probability  —  not  that  there  is,  under  the  circum- 
stances of  time  and  place,  any  obvious  breach  of  the  latter.  .  .  .  The  whole  is 
written  with  unflagging  spirit,  while  the  descriptive  portions  are  full  of  peculiar 
charm."  —  Globe. 


THE    OLD   FACTORY. 

A  LANCASHIRE  STORY. 

By    WILLIAM     WESTALL, 

Author  of  "RED  RYVINGTON,"    etc.,  etc. 

I  Vol.   1 2mo.  Cloth,  New  Style.    Price.  Sl.OO. 

Mr.  Westall  writes  of  the  manufacturing  districts  with  knowledge,  and 
in  his  hands  the  rough  Lancashire  folk,  and  the  grimy  purlieus  of  the 
cotton  towns  lend  themselves,  not  unpicturesquely,  to  the  needs  of  fiction. 
In  "  The  Old  Factory"  we  have  382  pages  of  closely  set  and  intensely 
interesting  matter,  in  which  the  author  has  ample  scope  to  display  his 
liking  for  incident  and  adventure,  an  opportunity  that  he  has  taken  ad- 
vantage of,  and  given  us  one  of  the  most  readable  novels  of  the  season. 

FOR  SALE  BY  ALL  BOOKSELLERS. 

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